Her beauty is a rose labyrinth with contagious

bee buzz like flames dancing to her breath’s

breeze over 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.