Feeding from the latent, And begging for curios I've assumed thy shape. You, the little Seraphim, Progeny of the immaculate Awaiting your escarpment.
I feel the itch of lesser beings Their wing'd hands scratch As I am pressed to you Forever. In this, behold hidden loss- Of beauty, eternity- Since gone from thy curve , That so deeply felt me, In ardor of flame. Oh tender thing, Vicious I am not ! For spreading tender wings Were thy plight at birth !