She is a War Cry

She’s a war cry rising
from dead ashes.
Black leather and vinyl are indestructible;
such was the lesson I’d learned long prior to scraping
at the feet of demons.

A promise hides behind vividly challenging lips
red with poise and sought for pleasure
while a giddy smirk seeks release
from beneath a heavenly but cold visage.

She’s alight with a heavenly glow,
a flame that crosses her eyes, so full of malice,
as she rises over me.
Both glare and fingernails bore into my flesh
and rid me of all brief piety.

Each fingertip evokes thousands of sensations
cresting over every emotion
to drown out and dilute.
Her heavy gaze is cruel and satisfied
with each twist and jerk to make me fight against
the pain she triggers,
like a half-cocked gun smoking in its holster.

All thoughts, hopes, and dreams slip away
and dissolve into crazed delusions
of shackles, blood, and the creaking of leather.

When I wake, permanently red fiber-optic strands are
the only reminder of an indulgence in the dastardly.
I can bandage the scabbing wounds
and force our continual confrontations from my mind,
but I can never completely regain
that which was taken.

She is a war cry
against everything I believed in.