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She’s the dark outer space, she’s my mistress,
And as lover of nothing, I’m sure,
That the moment I see that I’m empty as she
Is the same that my love shall restore

For the woman of substance and passion,
Of the God that is ultimate grace,
Which my mistress deplores with her hatred in stores
By dismissing my faith to my face.

She herself is a self-described sadist,
And addresses me with leather crops,
To decant all the soul from my physical whole
In the form of small ruby-red drops;

There is hope that my mistress will sweeten,
That my prayer for another might set
Her to be a fair bride once her temper’s allied
With the vision I seek to gain yet.

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