A Succulent Slice of Life's Pie

If it weren't for our passion, what would our lives be?

After years of two pining with internal darkness,
Pied clothes finally tear and fly away with passion
Like carnal pirates hunting sinuous seas for treasure.
Pipes throb and pulse with boiling blood,
As the pile of wood burns, crackles, flickers.
Her lips breathe soft sounds without piety,
While mine caress her delicate pilous skin.
The wooden pylons topped with ornate finials quake
As our pyrolytic dance breathes fiery life into the night.