Serpent
flowers even poison ivy to jest my life. We gallop
to
elope to build a truss—even a bridge back home. She’s
unclad,
and weaving twine, a woman’s guile. I peek a
bract
a young vignette to ebb through travesty. She’s
unclad,
counting marbles, and wilting softly. I shouldn’t
—but
for sight, and spoor to waft. She’s a meadow, to
seek
a forest, even a wing; and what for helm—to stir for
strength,
and feel regret. We wade gently, clad in
frustration,
debating
future features. There’s something for reason—a
wreath
of impute. I felt for stoic, to stress emotion, a tear
to
fall
her brow. She’s a pirate, where pirates roam, a premise
for
a kiss. I’m a vulture, filled with injustice, a premise for
a
scar. We spoke of twilight, a vivid hesitation, to witness
sweat
glands. She’s unclad, touching nerves, and flushed
red.
I’m close for exit, a carnal rapture, clad in rumors.
