His voice drew her consciousness,
keeping her awake
all through the ordeal;
And for the nonce as it were
whispers of sweet nothings.
Ivory wreathed around him, an
irony etched in her mind.

Her sanctity, compromised;
yet that was not the ordeal

How was it, in the absence of
light so sweet and blissful
that there was an angel
so passionate,
yet for malice.

She could not part
with words so violate
from her open maw;
but only from her
body -- come hither.

Johann Vaughan, the poem (if you can call it as such) as well as the art, is mine.