Its
creed perfume, to waft the winds, a friend of luxury—for imperial rites.
Its
diamond mane, laced in peach, bouncing gracefully. Its clarity polish,
adorning
nails, with French tips. Its coconut oils, for almond soaps, to
soak
in velvet. Its petal lemons, with cherry gems, a barefaced sun. Its
admiration,
to stroke a palm, to massage in plum lotion.
We
trek through daisies, to nibble apricots, draining stems. There’s green
for
acres, for sprinting foxes, to tip Cabernet. The glass is full, the voice is
giddy,
the chi is loud. We pop for Perignon, as young as teenagers, afraid to
save;
where daffodils are wisdom, for turquoise tulips, to fill a glass swan.
The
scent is anemone, the candy is liquorice, for strawberry breath. The
heart
is shadowed, a bachelor’s button, a bee balm flower; for rich are dice,
a
fevered fantasy, to forget me not; in which—to fly, to prune a passion, to
paint
a prism; whereat—is life, for butterscotch liquor—a first kiss. We
fall—stirring
ice cream, for dabbing vanilla. It’s worth a dream, a puffy rose,
grinding
rhinestones—to sprinkle for dust.
