Huis Clos

On a red sand beach,
beastmen purse swollen lips
and blow a mordant moan
against the sweet slash of coral conch.
Bedecked in ebon feathers,
he sits and thinks
of her will
that penetrated
the quotidian membrane
to grasp the ruby fruit.
Her fingers tore them
from Khaos’ grim grasp,
loosing them,
alone and voiceless,
creating from nothingness
something that resembled fabric,
plastic and printed,
pathetic, yet irrefutable,
serviceable, yet infinite.