Your lodestone enchants. I become your apposite:
Beloved in the three syllable (not two) sense.
My candid roses still bloom this winter;
Ruby flower petals reveal from buds;
A damsel draped in folds of purple silk.
A white horse under a blue silk saddle cloth.
A man adorned in vermillion,
caped in green silk.
Such is the mysterious experience of my soul. In catharsis.
Diabolical. Not good or evil. Beyond.
Strike your lucifermatch.
I can smell smoke as the head burns off of its length of woodstick.
Elemental and erudite. Enough already.
We need jesters not warriors.
We need simple fools in love.
Idiots both humble and at ease.
Concupiscence becomes more about accompaniment than being accompanied.
Aged like a fine thing, and
Ripening like a quickening.