PTF
Another paltry face, thrown across a screen,
Upon a sea of glass, she succumbs to a dead exchange,
The threshold of pleasure in physicality, she writhes, screaming
Her body twisted in the perfect form of climax
as her heart collapses upon its hollow core
No overwhelming light has stricken the mind
The contented sow lies, side-lain
She weeps at core for all she has forsaken
The wretched Flush, the blood again, briefly flows
Excitement, danger, it rushes in the two minute span
Subsides like the tide always will, samsaric in
the cyclical simplicity of this sex search
screaming writhing it is all loss
For as her climax builds, the character falls
Content becomes complacent, the mind decays
"This Fuck machine is dead inside"
says the head on the box,
and such a sordid line upon static washed
minds expresses all too well her nonthelessness
and subsequent hollow-pains from the knowledge.