temptation of spices

Wooden sipces, turning stonely,

unleashing hidden yearns,

twisting the fate of your clone,

the unchained venus haunting its admirers,

imprisoned in the château of juices,

vanished in filthy tales,

tales told by river-rats,

in search of treasure-chests,

bossomed by lost souls;

sailing away from forbidden lands,

grasping for those unwanted hands,

making a joke out of those aching bones,

testing ones skills through rythmic breathing,

that polite rythm of acceptance,

fooling ones assurance and certainty,

towards Achilles's inexistent heel,

corrupting herb, used as godly potion,

to sensualise unharmful deseases,

embodied by nature's ingridients,

trapped shamefully within ones divine body,

fuelled by the hard greed of cruel intentions,

softened through wet temptations,

that solid temptation of the cinnamon...