Eyes.
The shade of a wolf after his first kill.
When the winter epically overcomes summer and autumn.
Covering the seasonal corpses with its frosty mint spit.
Hair.
The feeling that takes over a mortal’s soul,
When gazing on the hour,
When the full moon slowly ascends to her melodic milky immortal throne.
Skin.
The taste of murdered cherries smeared across the course arctic sky.
The smell of woods during the twinkling mischievous twilight hours.
During the time when the nocturnal beast leaves a blood trail of the weaker species.
You.
The prince who dirty words are as pure as the vodka we chase with our butterfly pills.
We laugh as we chase after the imprints of iridescent children,
And dance to the sound of the dragon roar.
Me.
Breathless…
As my eyes scream passion as I dance on the tip of your royal crescent moon.
You are a conquer without a sword.
