The Goddess grown in hope alone would think herself most in the zone—she’d see the way her hips would flare and how her hair would make them scare—that arch she’d make had been the key and spine had seen a Goddess free. The Queen, they’d take her to the floor. They’d make her scream; their dirty whore. She’d squeal and laugh—beg and plead—she’d let them bite and make her bleed. They’d wail away all day in toil until she made their arms her soil. To plant anew and grow again the heartful, slobbering bitch of zen.
