lost in our reverie

With every arrow thrown from the lips of her moan,
I yield only an echo of the capture.
I am lost in the reverie of our war.
The thrashing salted in sweet devour
held deeply in breaths of charred lungs.
Nothing is as sweet as this destruction,
the arc of her back against my hips,
the jolting river of united frustration.
We delve into a sacred corruption,
and create a tempest to settle the
wake of day.
—  James Kelley 2013, Our War