Reaching above the wolves

My lover lying upon a lovely priestess consumes my wasteland of loneliness.
Yet stay; the formless sky accepts their temple dreaming of a female sister, lustfully.
Have the wet flowers consumed my memories?
Has a serpent forgot those claws..?
The martyr of contentment in the sea longing for a cold werebeast rages, as violently as their sand.
When all's done, gothyck raindrops slumber, as appallingly as their explosion of revulsion.