After milk--no, umbrage from her lips
you wind to her body to suck more.
She wills to extinguish herself for
your conversion. She wants you to dig

in hard to her source of rot. You beg
the moment to work for her as it
should for you. Let the mongrel moon watch
over the empires you raised and ruled,

on a day--tomorrow, your minions
shall devour your head on a platter.
Concede now your heart to any thief
that washes his hands of your threshold.

You alight from her worshipless sprawl.
You ache to announce your nothingness.