(The Primal Storm Of Unchained Bodies)

The thunder writhes between her thighs,
A war of flesh where mercy dies,
Each thrust, a tempest, fierce and wise,
Each gasp, a prayer, a brutal rise.

The sweat is rain that floods the bed,
It trickles, drowns, it paints us red,
The walls collapse, the hours shed,
Inside her waves, all time is dead.

She grips, she pulls, her nails impale,
She rides the storm, her hips set sail,
The world dissolves—a phantom trail,
The gods watch on, their faces pale.

The beast awakes beneath my skin,
A roaring ghost, a carnal twin,
It rages, writhes, it pulls me in,
I lose myself, I breathe her sin.

Her breath is fire, searing, deep,
Her moans are wounds that never sleep,
A savage song, a sinner’s sweep,
She drowns me whole, and still I leap.

Our bodies crash, two raging seas,
Each cresting peak, each violent tease,
No mercy found, no soft release,
Just war, just flame, just blasphemies.

And when we break, the world stands still,
The air is thick, the silence shrill,
A godless high, a shattered thrill,
And yet—I crave, I need, I will.