a spidery hand

Hyacinth garden

Long, long ago when he made her cry.

She remembered how,

Her shape quivers from the black ink of his pen.

He wields a streaming rigid -pen.

He was to blame he scratches ink into words...

He scrawled his prose with a spidery hand.

She swore those words that could glow in the dark.

They gleam like flames in the color of her hair.

She smolders, as if a molten Monarch Butterfly with a touch of fever.

Almost unnatural her fever rises in her fervid heart.

Once again she has resurgent wings.

She can transgress all boundaries.

Her naked skin like a miasma rumors whisper soft velvet-lined wishes.

She is a downy vision in palmette mirrors, shining in candlelight.

Her silky wrappings fade, leaving her cocoon in the distance.

She nods her acquiescence and numbers the nights rolling in his summer sweat.

The moonlit skies constant as opal - prodigious stars glitter like taffeta....

While he is a chameleon smooth to her touch....she loves to be this close to him.

And his tongue licks eager at her flame of flames,

Those flames they are so beautiful.

He reads her scintillating vortex but he cannot see the scrawled spidery writing, it never belonged to him.

He has eyes hidden with a clawed narrow glare.

He whispers into the velvet darkness and remembers the past.

Had they enjoyed the simple pleasure of it all?

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