A.W. Books & Poetry

A lovely, little blushing petit four,

One bite to find charcoal on the inside,

Cronus stole from my soul and left it poor,

Leaving a shell of a prospective bride.

I unsheathe my dagger and leave it drawn,

There are wolves in sheep skin tying up loose ends.

Is it not sweet to be stalked by a con?

Sultry prescriptions that Phobos intends.

He looks so beautiful standing over there.

In a slip of my sense I take the fall;

Lays a bloom of Datura in my hair,

A leap of trust to leave me slain, withal.

It is too cold for lost angels to fly

So I sit and pray my heart will love nigh.

~Annalise