So surely does the sweet sensual seduction of our simple successes in life leave us sparsely satisfied. The waywardly wonders of our youth wantingly wasted on whipples of whim and wisp. It is much more mannered to mask ones meek morals than to mistake a misguided misdirection for the misunderstandings of a masochistic mind. So rejoice! Reapingly raising your rash rails and reasons to the rampart of your ready render. Take the tapestry of your tales through to the temple that once trapped your twisted thoughts. Your soul is black. Blistering with the braille burned into a beastly body that beats with brutish behavior. I know knots kicking and kneeling, knifing their kisses with each knuckle. The pleasurable pain does plea and panic past the peak psychology and pounds us to play in our permeable prisons.
(Side note about the prose:) When you truly know that a vampire has too much time on their hands to wonder about the fine arts of poetry in the modern day. ;)
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