As I sit here in the Afterglow, of my latest amorous endeavor, I'm struck by all the things I used to know, other than my gifts at giving pleasure.
The pleasures of pain, giving not taking, knowing how to reap and sow misery and discord, I'm not faking, it was always it's own reward.
I used to mold and control, manipulate and denigrate, the mind of everyone who came my way. Solely, I'm told, so I could betray them to the day.
Now, you know, it isn't at all so. In spite of my dislike of the Light, I find that night after night, my circle of friends does grow. Does my wonder show?
Like my friend writing about cheese, or Gentle Soul confiding in me, try as I might, I can't avoid the light. What do they see in wretched, volatile me?
These things I used to know, as I sit and commit them to the past, I can at last, bask in the Afterglow of the poem I wrote, not sex after all you silly goat.
I am not responsible for how you choose to interpret what I say.