The rush of the red, stripes painted onto a canvas of innocence.
Triumphant horns cry out, and the rivers flow once more.
Lust is a glorious thing.
Splashes of color, the fusion of life, the thrust of adrenaline..
The ecstatic shake of the fingertips.
Oh! How the heart races and freedom can be found!
Lust is a marvelous thing.
Stars become harder to count, and glory seems to splay before the eyes.
Whispers haunt the night and broken women softly sigh.
Battles are never won, merely satisfied.
Lust is a treacherous thing.
