still life

a constabulary of carnations,
prim balls of pandering pink
puffs, swaying in the morbidity,
inelegant indulgences like the
swollen lips of lust, herself

her cheshire grin ignites a
charred patch of desire flaring
across the cottonwood fluff
covered fields, a quick burn
leaving naught but ash behind

the swell of her breasts, supple
rapture in every heaving gasp,
sunflowers along a picket fence, unpossible to comprehend in
regally mathematical design

still life paintings of orchids in
bloom, the delicate bud opens
with dew speckled petals, a lush
perfume inebriating the contrite
soul of piteous poetic rambling

alas, alas, the fool in throes of
metaphorical musings, a muse
infused by complex beauty, she
effuses a grace, charm and
intellect that confuses conception

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