The phoenix heats the cunning peaches of June
Ah, the summertime has such
artful pity.

Resting redly in an ocean of shadows
is Scarborough Fair.
With sweet and cardinal scent of the roses clinging to the air.
A woman of cherries, potential untapped.
With a harsh fate upon her as well as a pact.
A child born to parents star-crossed.
A love that was denied and a high cost.
I see her there
Fair-skinned, dark-haired.
Lips of rosed sin
And slinks the world prepared.

And with this woman walks the four,
Weapons of mass destruction that
the Devil would **** for.
The sass of Parsley
The wisdom of Sage
The touch of Rosemary
The passage of Thyme

"I can no other answer make but thanks,
And thanks; and ever thanks; and oft good turns."
- Sebastian in the Twelfth Night.
Written by William Shakespeare.

My sienna-limbed Ya Amar,
who whispers love in my ear at night,
make me your divine golden lyre,
dancing and touched and kissed by fire.