Within the deepest recesses of my mind,
Without a passing filter and undeterred,
lie the foul of my imagination and soul,
Tainted like a derelict well poisoned by suffering.
Her mind was fair,
As fair as her mocha skin, As lush as her flowing black mane.
And the innocent flesh that held fast to her bones,
Without a passing thought,
was pure.
Yet in some twisted reality of my foul,
Dark imagination,
Deep in my wronged soul,
She was mine.
