This seasons sensuality's, afresh with the grace of a hidden marksman, waiting to take the lives of those enthralled with the thaw.
He came, he saw.
The first blade slipped under his tongue; the green grass grew all around, all around. Encompassing the floral and fauna proliferated over night; his divine right was to exploit, to oblige.
I came, I saw.
He asked; how does my garden grow? I showed him the bare bush. He placed the first bud on my stark bones, the first blossom on the first sprouted seed. He pricked his finger on the first thorn of my first rose.
We frolicked in the firsts of lavish spring; he'd revived what I'd believed to be the last of sentient life.
No heed paid to notoriously venal nature; his gentile facade hauling closer.
His fervor ignites, but in due time, he casts a wind just calm enough to ignore.
Just sharp enough to put the cherry out.
Last drags on the last cigarette, last drink before last call. The last drop from the last glass, a pick me up before we hit the sack.
Quite contrary to the enlivened spell, no blue bells showed themselves.
His arms sought frost in morning's dew; from richness to ragged,
my plot frigid, hungry, dull.
The first taste of warmth grapples a cold front to last the summer months.
We came, we saw.
