lily hills white

le bonhomme de pain d'épices

her iron veins pool with hot blood,
milky velvet and gingerbread skin,
she's raw honeycomb from the hive,
thick and sickeningly sweet.

it's warm here
through these gold-tainted glasses
and rays and rays
of daylight to forever bask.

she's a continuous hum,
the warm fuzzy feeling
of one glass too many of chianti,
the soft buzz, buzz of a bee.

it's a sign,
an arterial gush,
a cacophonous warning,
to run, run as fast as i possibly can.