Venom Poem by Petra Novakova

It is the witching hour and we are hungry again, hungry for more
black tendrils coiled tightly within our skin, soft and possessive.
They roll over us in waves as our body arches into their touch and
welcomes the kiss that reaches straight into our souls intertwined.
Our mindscape then becomes a projection of multiple alien stimuli
as you and I, they and us overlap, twisting into an intricate graffiti.
Stealing sweet moans and soft gasps of pleasure feeding the desire
the darkness consumes our missing pieces until they melt into one.