Incubus

she has spoken to me, once in a dream, for that i remember;
the plum lips of the angel caressed the fabrications of life
though, she was of no such thing and her eyes, which were the same pigmentation of the tuscan skies, fell silent beneath oval-shaped moons

the drawl was not necessaily oral, but introspectively; speaking of inevitable and prior engagements
but, i was not in shackles or within internal agony
she assured that within the world i had chance, a concept that is only given to those worthy, and with chance i could monopolize the facade of radical society; the home of many

but, even within prestige and radiance,
i would wake in day
eat thy bread
drink thy wine
make thy bed

for, radical indulgence, is the awareness
and she knew this