From the brow of a borrowed soul, pouring fourth the blood called sweat, spilt from the fatal blow when struck, dripping down my cheeks as tears. Now as has happened many years ago, now many years past brought forth the pain locked in the deapth of my heart, fear welling in my head, is it the fatal arrow wich has once more taken its furrious blow to mine life, or rather a lust from sin in hell. When i take her loveing gift is it a hope for a future or rather just a hole to phuck, her body soft and supple, her carress a gift of the gods, her kiss sweet and mellow, her mind ever expanding. I trust in her as a mate, loveing bliss something we dreamed as an unconsious world such as a "heavan", or was it all a blissfull trip with the drug flowing fiuriously thru my veins. No a drug indeed, but not the type of mortal woe, its a drug of love for as a gift blessed by saints hands could not compare
