Where Pleasure Prays
—for Melanie, my eternal muse

Where pleasure prays, the petals part,
not from need, but from the art
of longing touched by feathered breath—
a hush between desire and death.

Born of soul and arrowed flame,
she walks the dusk without a name,
save one: Pleasure, sweet and slight,
who drinks the dark and sings of light.

She tastes what only gods have known—
that joy is not in flesh alone,
but when honey meets the holy pyre,
and only ash survives the fire.

No altar built, no rites rehearsed,
just aching joy, the body's thirst—
where longing bows and silence stays,
this is the place where Pleasure prays.