Being your, slave what should I do but tend - Upon the hours and times
of your desire? - William Shakespeare
Here I am again, once more - waiting - anticipating - hating her
for doing to me what she does. Oh! - she knows that with every sway of
her wide hips and with every single bat of those green eyes - and of course
what would she be with out that quill that she bites ever so softly, as so
many times has she done to my neck - only harder.
Tell me, truly - how can I be such drone-like fool. She doesn't
love me. - Does she? Every night I make way up to this baroque tower and
the nightmares that I had as a childer bore their way through my soul as a
lance pierce my flesh. The terrible colde excites me - nipping at my neck
and mine fingers could find numbness in the darke.
Footsteps - not hurried - no not tonight - hard and long -
strung out. She is far worse than angry - her temper will leave violet
silk on mine plume skin this dreary quartre moone. I dare not turn around,
her eyes will be ablaze with abhorrance.
She cups my neck, near choking me with her grip of frigidness
- sometimes I wonder if she is of the un-dead. I wear no robe - she
tore the last one, she adores it when my skin is colder than ice. I think
it is because Draco Malfoy's skin is near transluscent and just as chilled
as hers. He has hit her again - the blood from her mouth has stained her
lips ruby red.
Oh! - to kiss those lips - so entirely pouty and sweet as
venomous. She - Pansy Parkinson, oh the girl that I used to love
to hate - loves him. Even when he beat her to brink of death - she
follows him and will always follow him. Her lips are on mine - the
silver essence in my mouth - I think I could perish and live in the
clouds as the emotion content.
Steps - so silent, we bothe did not hear. Then a scream,
so silently deafening, that I fear I will never listen to her cries
of lust anymore. Oh, no - it is him - the albino devil with maces of
serpents in his orbs. Dearest Diana, oh Goddess - give me the strength
to utter the words to protect myself. My un-loving lover cowers in a
corner - tearing up, she knows she will be beaten tonight and he will
heal her so no one will suspect.
Why can I not find my wand - did I not put it in my robes?
There - Draco is not idiotic as I suspected - his Father - a death
eater for many a year has taught him well - the words of the killing
curse will destroy me. I turne my back on him to view my only lover
- the only one I shall ever have portion my soul.
How her eyes reflect the nonchalant feeling of my death.
Indeed, she is the puppet master and I am only mere clothe and stuffing.
Slave - of my own volition I die for her - knowing well, that my death
will be spread over by an knife with sweet sugar icing.
of your desire? - William Shakespeare
Here I am again, once more - waiting - anticipating - hating her
for doing to me what she does. Oh! - she knows that with every sway of
her wide hips and with every single bat of those green eyes - and of course
what would she be with out that quill that she bites ever so softly, as so
many times has she done to my neck - only harder.
Tell me, truly - how can I be such drone-like fool. She doesn't
love me. - Does she? Every night I make way up to this baroque tower and
the nightmares that I had as a childer bore their way through my soul as a
lance pierce my flesh. The terrible colde excites me - nipping at my neck
and mine fingers could find numbness in the darke.
Footsteps - not hurried - no not tonight - hard and long -
strung out. She is far worse than angry - her temper will leave violet
silk on mine plume skin this dreary quartre moone. I dare not turn around,
her eyes will be ablaze with abhorrance.
She cups my neck, near choking me with her grip of frigidness
- sometimes I wonder if she is of the un-dead. I wear no robe - she
tore the last one, she adores it when my skin is colder than ice. I think
it is because Draco Malfoy's skin is near transluscent and just as chilled
as hers. He has hit her again - the blood from her mouth has stained her
lips ruby red.
Oh! - to kiss those lips - so entirely pouty and sweet as
venomous. She - Pansy Parkinson, oh the girl that I used to love
to hate - loves him. Even when he beat her to brink of death - she
follows him and will always follow him. Her lips are on mine - the
silver essence in my mouth - I think I could perish and live in the
clouds as the emotion content.
Steps - so silent, we bothe did not hear. Then a scream,
so silently deafening, that I fear I will never listen to her cries
of lust anymore. Oh, no - it is him - the albino devil with maces of
serpents in his orbs. Dearest Diana, oh Goddess - give me the strength
to utter the words to protect myself. My un-loving lover cowers in a
corner - tearing up, she knows she will be beaten tonight and he will
heal her so no one will suspect.
Why can I not find my wand - did I not put it in my robes?
There - Draco is not idiotic as I suspected - his Father - a death
eater for many a year has taught him well - the words of the killing
curse will destroy me. I turne my back on him to view my only lover
- the only one I shall ever have portion my soul.
How her eyes reflect the nonchalant feeling of my death.
Indeed, she is the puppet master and I am only mere clothe and stuffing.
Slave - of my own volition I die for her - knowing well, that my death
will be spread over by an knife with sweet sugar icing.