Weaklings in Power
Woman of thy glass heart full of tears,
With unassuming power in the waiting,
With lava flowing through thy paper veins,
With legs for walking but not walking,
Destined for erotic thoughts,
Mobil thighs loosening up for ceremonial rites,
And fragile arms flexed for the dogged grasping,
And virginal smiles turning into reckless desires,
Mouths lined with razor teeth of white granite,
Poised for the ceremonial killing.
Woman of scented flesh throughout
All the hills and valleys,
Weaklings empowered by the spirit,
Turning vile parts into perfumed gardens
Of alluring flavors and magic potions,
Casting them out into the mystical air
Into an earthly blending with the heavens,
Turning the ordinary into the extraordinary,
Hearts of cold steel into roaring infernos,
A natal passion forever expanding
And reaching the threshold of erotic fervor,
Standing behind the man but out in front,
A throne behind another throne
With the power of deposition,
An opening of the thighs,
A stirring of the loin,
A racing of the heart,
The culmination of a heated love,
The melting of the ego
And the deposition of the mighty.
Of weaklings and your unassuming power,
Our weakened egos reach out to you in awe.
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