portrait

her countenance is a loaded die

giving the illusion of chance when the outcome is

   all but certain

she will spare your life, but your heart--

it's a lunchtime snack

constantly in love with someone

in love with love, with the very idea of love

loving two, three, four at a time

keeping it locked, showing you glimpses of

shangri-la

what to you is a memory is to her just a

trivial affair

your brain tells you, 'flee from here,

this place where green things turn brown

this place where living things wither and die.'

but you can't.  you stare and--

flames engulf you.

another victim of irresistible bliss