Fumes induce this, the nauseating nest.
It dictates what nectar I should drink.
The hues are spoken with cherub's breath
while I quote Icarus and the glory of blue.
The snail, you don't love me, and still.
Your ephemeral shape kisses my lips
just as Judas would kiss, but with eyes,
dark as winter showers with autumnal halos
in bloom.
The smiling blue-white path in front of me grows appeal and I chase.