Poison Ides

Fire descends upon the plains
Of our own digressions,
Synaptic pathways and mutable
Contours of a degenerative sod.

Scooped but not startled,
Strained yet not inebriated,
Owing to the fantasies
Of fairy tale regalia.

I was looming
Where the sea
Meets mythology
And births misogyny.

Love meets death meets
Horticulture. Benefaction,

Remedial centrifuge of distractions,
Accursed contours of a gloating bitch,
Whose eyes have not met mine
For days and years of time;
What little left I have, is yours to rhyme.


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