She owns her flesh.
Old goddess, beautiful decay-
draping along the length of her bones
like a Shakespearean sonnet.
When the graveyard lurkers
come to pray upon a carcass,
they will howl their mournful sorrow
to the earth below their claws.
Devouring her, respectfully.
She, with an aged bird spirit:
unable to be caged.
YOU ARE READING
Fire in the Blood
PoetryThere is a fire in your blood, my dear,—not even a thousand kisses deep could extinguish. One caress of golden flames will scorched the prints of many a frostbitten future.
