I want to conquer your kingdom,
and make myself the sole tenant
in your ivory tower.

I want to graze your hills
and caress your wispy meadows.
I want to smell every bit of wild grass
and taste the freshly kept pollen.

I want to indulge in your nectarines;
I want to stem out into you
and root myself to your very core—
till I become
your only sustenance.

Words and murmurs,
silhouettes and shadows,
whispers and breaths.

Your lashes applauding
your beauty
as you open
and close the dam
to your soul.

Your nose,
breathing in the harsh wind
and letting out soft gasps
in my anticipation.

Your eyes,
looking at mine—
not knowing what lays beyond,
but still looking with growing intent,
adamant to explore.

A fruit that kills,

A woman that deceives.

A man, banished—

Exiled to the mud,

from whence he came,

and shall return.

He toils and tumbles,

screeches and cries.

The trees watch,

with growing silence.

The roots cave in.

They are ignorant—

to my suffering.

A witness that

never confesses.

They bear fruit

that fall and are bludgeoned.

They cry in silence—

there is no one left

to devour their pent-up tears.

—I grow tired,

I grow weary.