Not my photograph.

Claws for nails, hands that
clamp love at first.
Set up that final need
for lust. Gains trust, harder,
deeper, betraying even myself.
Why do I want you so? Closer,
until the faint embers of yellowed eyes
are all I see before you
take in that final deep breath.
Even humming birds fall into your trap

— goddess of rebirth flawlessly
populating the drying earth.
Glorious skies, with hands folded,
as if in eternal prayer.


About misspee

Sometimes I'm wrong. Sometimes, I write. View all posts by misspee

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