For once desire brands the soul it writes itself on every hour, an afterimage hunger neither time nor daylight can cast outNail in the Coffin
You were the hammer, I the nail, driven hard with no reprieve,every strike a verdict stamped in bone, no mercy to conceive.Steel fingers gripped my spine, guided force I could not fight,as flesh and metal interwove beneath the moonless night.
Sweat pooled like black confession, each gasp a blood-spattered plea,I bucked against your rhythm, wrung raw by that brutality.Your angle carved confessionals I dared not voice aloud,my body roped to thunderous blows beneath that viscous shroud.
Nail in the coffin—our passion shackled, cold, and dead,your thrusts renewed the sentence that intuition dread.No counsel in those hammer blows, no grace in every clinch,just bone-deep consecration in that sharpened, sinful pinch.
Blood and bruise became my cloak, a mosaic of shame,I wore each mark like proof to our unholy game.Walls drank every tortured cry while darkness claimed its due,and in that crucible of want, our covenant withdrew.
You paused at last, breath ragged, sweat-slick arms unwound,but I remained impaled by purpose, sealed in hallowed ground.No rising chord, no mercy’s hand to free this pinned lament,just iron’s cold endorsement and flesh’s final descent.
Now silence hangs like gravestones above this desecrated frame,the echo of your hammer’s arc still pulses with the blame.I count the cost of every blow—the mortar of despair—trapped in ruin of your making, naked, vacant, bare.
No epitaph awaits this wreck, no comfort in the pall,just the nail that rings forever in this tomb’s eternal hall.Hammer rests beyond recall; I rattle in the bind,a rusted relic of feral trust no burial can unbind.
Now let the earth press heavy where these battered layers lie,no rites to cleanse the memory, no tears to sanctify.A nail in the coffin stands—definitive, austere—and nothing stirs to soften what your hammer brought here.