I’m Polaris. Stared at with an Aryan soul. It’s
platinum-toned chariots in Her Majesty’s orbit.
Her pheromones, barely grown through Germanian forest,
With thick nefarious groves, in between crystal green basins for worship.
It’s… an aerial focus, ripped by an egomaniac’s warship.
Thickets of woodlands dismembered by this sultan and emperor.
Mission accepted, twisted machete to my indulging adventurer.
The teasel combs shied at my annulment of atonement.
The lulling hypnosis, dull and precocious.
When I’m alone, my evenings weathered.
I go home and read your letters.
Feeling bold, uneven-tempered, where her solstice meets December.
I hold, I flee, and whisper in a lowly weakened blend
Of a golden bleeding sepia, where I cross over an avalanche of paragraphs,
Where we spoke as seasons withered, and I wince and moan to myself,
‘I really hope she’s feeling better.’