it always comes back to the woman with hair that smells of wildflowers

the nymph

the siren

the enchantress

the devil in stockings with that round ass and her nose always in the air

some nights i spend cursing the world for daring give birth to the foul demoness

all the scary tales whispered around a campfire are about her

with her eyes like cut diamonds

hard and icy when she glares balefire at a helpless soul

her tongue like a machete

hacking and chopping down any that gets in her way with brutal efficiency

the angel

the song bird

the fairy queen herself

florence nightingale in her nurse outfit with the skirt slit high to show the pale flesh and promises of paradise

with her soft hands that have trained in arts of pleasure

those full lips she uses so generously in places that she knows so well

i thank the stars in the sky for her gracing this blue marble

every step she takes causes flowers to blossom and sunlight to stream

as if she stepped out of a daydream with the intent to grant your fondest wishes

the moroseless killer of men

the gentle summer rains

i hate her in equal parts to how much i love her

can’t stand to be near her

can’t wait for another taste

laying alone staring at the ceiling and telling myself i won’t dream about her tonight

she’s a harpy

a witch

a voodoo priestess who has cast a spell over my unwilling mind and tempts me into sin

she is hope in a world of sorrow

a shooting star

damn it all

what i wouldn’t give if she were real

this mystery woman that finds a way into my head