The Road

She was waiting in a coat of indescribable bliss,   

hovered with the oak and old maggoty skies, walking hand under   

wound through long spindled weaves.   

Her words, forever mired in palettes, a bricolage of miles  

blushed impressionistic;  

the dreams of sleepy leaves.   

Wings spilled into streams of serenity from her eyes  

her opiates, praying for a soul to kill,  

this huntress bound to the arrow of breath.   

It was, in end, an origin of heir  

there too a vascular beast; mindless.   

She called and I consumed in lavish fate her lair;     

Addicted to a rose.

Reviews

[Priscilla Sayers]

And who is the Rose
She....
Hawk who sees beyond sight shed some light please

[Perdition]

For everyone it is different...The road P....The road.