And when the Gods shall sip of me, they shall feel your taste of silver that was dripping from your heart into my soul and no higher power shall save them from your dusty shallowness of ice which is sustaining our inexistence. The spell of the silver. Cold and distant as our silver faith, you are continuing your arousing dance on the altar of pleasure and you make me aim so high that my forehead is shaking the stars with my touch of silver. And your tender embracement of pleasure is breaking into sand my bones of silver. Always painful and always fulfilling. Two vibes of higher pleasures stuck in the resonance of interference. Unable to escape our silver. And your sun tainted hair of hidden sins is dripping the remaining sand from my clepsydra of love and the ghosts of all my sand-relinquished massacres are riding the silver sea of pain in seek for their vengeance over my sins. And when they shall reach the shore of my remaining sand, they shall sink my clepsydra of love into the sea of silver for its eternal sleep of ice. But there is no more shore between my sea and my sand. Your sensual sinful dance has taken away the shore of my sea of silver and all the ghosts of my massacres are alienated in the shore-less sea in their eternal seek for revenge. You are my shore. You own my sand. You drip my sand into your soul and you pour it back in my clepsydra. Sweet, young and savage sensuality, my silver love, you have feasted over my soul for so long that your sand of silver has become the only food I seek in my journey. And long is not long. Long is just complex. Painful. Our galactic cycle of long in its excruciating mundane transformation is becoming years, months, days, hours, minutes, seconds and when seconds are not complex enough... the long became a clepsydra of silver sand. Time is passing. But clepsydrae reverse in eternal pain. I crave the clepsydrae. The golden age of our real love is caught around my clepsydra of soul dripping silver flowing in the storm of sand. The Chinese drop of silver sand destructing and reconstructing my soul, particle by particle under the orchestration of my silver commander of real love. And my shadow under the eastern light of faith is being shaded over my dripping soul of sand and I can feel each painful drip. For my sand of silver is nothing else but sharp pieces stained glass of pain which once served the basis for a faithful illustration in the house of faith boosted by the eastern light. As the light was piercing the stained glass... so is the silver piercing the sand in my soul towards its eternal purification in the clepsydra. All the sand will become particles of silver. Don’t ever take away this spell of the silver. (©OAS2014) https://youtube/watch?v=xDprYZ-tgiA
Posted on: Wed, 26 Nov 2014 11:17:18 +0000
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