THE bed a crime scene of sorts
a passion spilled in sweat
willingly i go – to my death
he comes to me in the night
a sword sharpened by lust
and thrusts it into my soul
mother, i’m ready to come home
but the line between pain & pleasure
is small compared to the pleasant death
the coroner will say an untimely passing
but my murderous lover knew the timing
each plunge of his knife ever deeper
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E.P. Robles | Poetry 