Thoughts of a January evening.
The days turned into a week.
A scarlet week of pure indulgence.
The painted lady's a butterfly and so she flew away.
Her wings weighed down with age that drenched, self image.
She drowned in last weeks' satisfaction.
The poet laughs in maniacal gratification.
Sorry my friend, I couldn't resist it.
Never mind, she smiles and winks.
Pours herself another drink...!
Shocking I hear you say,
(C) Livvi.