What I know I am not
When curve met singular.
When dove burst into the flames of sunsets roar.
A distant humming, a disguise for your lure.
A distinguished figure, a lusted after
Folklore. Ancient, tribal and torn.
One is weeping. One is smiling.
Sharpening her teeth.
A wowoman, man. Left to explore.
One is moved to tell.
One is still. One is scared.
A poison ivy, a close pale skin.
Stripped and born.
Like a child, heart beating.
Loves always it’s own.