Oh slow, deliberating angel,
depart not from the vicinity of my folly.
Some things are still meant to be seen,
but only through your eyes.
Silence not the rising cries
of promiscuity in the blood,
for they guide the two of us
towards the other’s swollen switch.
The itch I have for you
is exacting, exasperating,
exhilirating.
Oh slow, deliberating angel,
linger long as I bask
in the sultry glow of your grace.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 