I’m Polaris. Stared at with an Aryan soul. It’s
platinum toned chariots in her majesty’s orbit
Her pheromones, barely grown through Germanian.
Forest. With thick nefarious groves, in between crystal green basin for worship
It’s….an aerial focus, ripped by an egomaniacs warship.
Thickets of woodlands dismembered, by this sultan and emperor.
Mission accepted, twisted machete to my indulging adventurer.
The teasel combs shyed at my annul of atonement.
The lullings hypnosis; dull and precocious
When I’m alone, my evenings weathered
I go home and read your letters.
Feeling bold, uneven; tempered. Where her solstice meets december
I hold, I flee, and whisper, in a lowly weakened blend
of a golden bleeding sepia, where I cross over avalanche of paragraphs
where we spoke as seasons withered, and I wince and moan to myself
“i really hope shes feeling better.”