The artist scuplts her a set of cherub lips,
two handfuls of breasts and twists her locks
with gritted stone. He sets her in a garden;
a fountain splashing ghosts onto her skin,
plants whispering their language in her ears.
Lavished with practice and knowledge, she is
preserved for your first touch.
She'll whisper that you're far too much.
The artist is a breath away and her eyes are screaming
"beauty and the beast". Cup the fruits of Eden
in your hands, exiled Adam, and ask her
Is your name
evening?
Wait until the sunrise bleeds across all of
your dirty deeds. This light catches the silver eyes
unblinking, dripping dew drop tears. Night stole away
the sinner, whose name was Abel's Cane, and our
[beast], morning, is infected with sickness and
has wrung out the last cherry...which shrivels with new life.
