Ichor

three; will and woe

he roars - soundless
and quaint with no voice
and no delineation as though
he's destroyed.

his skin - the color of caramel and
of compassionate sin and the
devilish grin on his Lolita brink.

he knows he should stop and
hold her hand instead of thinking
of the doll's ever-blinking eyelashes.

the clock ticks and he's still talking
to his doll - never objectifying her
and never treating her like an inferior.
the devil needs the raconteur's lullaby
to close his eyes and go to bye-byes.

hey boy, stop it won't you?

his mortal hand
touches her skin
and her willful lips
touches his.

he calls himself a monster
but his skin and act beg to differ.
his delineation on his crimson lips.

he says he doesn't know how
to love himself and sensitive skin is
tangibly touched for she loves him
timelessly instead.

her palpable aura
and his mercurial
ray, clash together
to form a drear.

his fist clashes against the wall
and the doll glares as she fixed
a band on his knuckles.

his girl doesn't know because he was never hers.

he is intoxicated of her
and she chained him to
her heart, his lips smile
against hers, the smoke
between them of
clambering woe.

he's flawed and imperfect,
his scars venturing deep in.
and as a shape-shifter she is,
the succubus loved him to death.