A fever of superstition
nipping at a butterfly.
a shared adversary
bounded by secrets .
Her eyes a soft
quiet brown.
A plate spinner
in a vast forest of lies .
The embodiment of the thorn .
The essence of the Rose .
The soft hand of dusk
pulled down the night .
Not recognizing the borders
balanced on a bottle of wine .
Hypnotized by the color
of spectral vibrations.
Her voice was soft and calm .
Knowing that life oscillates
between the adventurous
and the ridiculous .
The heart she
hadn’t wanted to give away ,
softly broke .