Cxxi

A flame of gold
She was
Beneath my finger tips.
Skin richer than velvet
Softer than watered silk.
Her words;
The breeze that blows from Elysium,
Her taste sweet,
But yet sour;
Like life,
Mother Nature herself.
Every sweet thing has a bitter end.

The flame died,
You pulled away from me
You hid away in your sacred garments
And went back to reside in the temple of pretence.