A Thread Shed To Many

Extends through my body, contained within, blown without, controlled by a vibrant hued, pink livid hand. To dangle, on this her spigot, brings her joy, on this for her, for her only, do i, must i, will i swing..while she sings.... of other things, it is forgotten. On this, hers, this thin thread, she holds it..a look unproved, is only but by the fire, in the hole that Venus, Mons does spew. Telescopic, is to raze, the heavens as her thin veil, never cries. This fire makes the oil, you bottle, to spray within us, is allowed. Birds around the world, wonder as forever, spins thus..in dance. While my thread of pinkness, in which it is trapped is passed from one pink hand, to another, freshly spun...from her, pink spigot.