Her beauty is a rose labyrinth with contagious
bee buzz like flames dancing to her breath’s
breeze upon cliff. Below, she is a crashing wave,
ungraspable yet simulated by chalices’ pour—
a lychee nectar to taste, not to ferment under vitrine.
Her threads feed into my spindles, friction hot.
We’ve a spider web with golden shears like quick-
sand with vines—a spellbinder and its elixir.
Petals, like pedals, spin chariot wheels unscathed
by praxis, Thanatos’s scythe, and Hydra’s claw.