The Feminine
Call her...
As if she is smoldering, ablaze—a closely patched,
short-lived, highly coveted incendiary concealed by a
haze of smoke, charred within moments of being
lit. She will not hear you scream; she will not be
even aware of your exhaustive gaze, but
you will still call for her—and beg on your knees.
Call her...
Just when the tarnish of the lethal rain concludes
over a torrent of downside, hell-torn puddles, and
visible streaks of morning dew. She will be
intent on moving into the backdraft and the aftershock.
Call her...
Knowing that she will be a hundred-fold maze of
ravishing riddles. You will suppress every
idle attempt on a white-scarved surrender and a
zero chance for an encounter—that which in
zealous desperation will lead into a stale-mate—and
instead you will utter in silence: she will remain
an unsolved dilemma, a work in progress.
Call her...
Vexatious, and you will still be at fault; name her
innocent, and a trial you will hold. You will expect
nothing short of broken syntheses and peripheral
accounts, unwary of your inevitable defeat.
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