Medieval Vixen

Of the tales in Violeta

The woman of wondrous innocence

I would wish for the touch of his skin

To leave the echo in writing, 

cartography on my mind

Nobody has ever struck the vein

Will you be the first to lay in my thunder?

I’d plead on my crimson knees to hinder a moan

The bluegrass in your soul sells the pyre on my chest

Painting on ageless eyelids with morality, on the foot of the bed

Caressing the devil while I hold you

But the gray on your neck invites me to linger

With my fingertip on your lower lip, our own religion

The theology of forsaken hips

With smokeless sighs of relief

His flowerbed of waves finally crash on my hip

Saving the medieval vixen through fainted light