hesitant, a woman glanced out an enamoured window more folded over than her eyelashes. a manor felt by the curves of feet, hands tracing cheekbones like a lost treasure. she wonders if she is looking at a dead god, thrown from heaven with a cherry on her lips and three chess pieces in her robe(she was in the middle of a game) is worth it. too hesitant, she counts her diamonds before she kisses and holds her pearls close when she has sex. such a pretty soul, god, it makes me want to rip it apart with my teeth and sink my incisors into the fleshy corners. her soul is a box, you see, one that holds her nonsense singing and her perpetual wine grape eyes, so dense and soft i want to lap them up and wonder when my time in hell is coming. she sings so much, lord, it's incredible; the way she traces hips and thighs and breasts and stomachs. the way she plays with hearts and tosses them out like a piece of paper she never needed, the way she sighs with enough saturnine to make the planets envy her. a cough drop tongue that licks her petal lips, dainty hands that break her sanity and sin in front of her eyes. soft sighs and juxtapositions, she was poet many moons ago. dancing on venus to the sounds of winter and sonder and bitter, bitter wantoning; sometimes i wish i was her's all along.
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paraphernalia
Poetrypretentious poetry. FOREWARNING: this was written over three years. my style changes dramatically, as does everything else. quality of pieces varies.
