Chapter Text
Am I deservèd someday to be yours,
Or shall my hubris bid lust to quiesce?
For every barque I steered toward golden shores,
A different sea you bade the winds caress.
And evermore damask, my bruisèd knee
Grows feebler 'neath sundered pyrite bone,
Through every dreg of love I stole from thee,
Such ardent years are all but overthrown.
So wherefore do I wish my stainèd skin
To press its debauched bruises to thy hand?
Regardless whether thou art steeped in sin,
A ravished heart still blithely courts the damned.
Mayhap someday we'll love on wine-dark shores
But ere that age, regretfully, I'm yours.