Ghosts hide behind her eyes Joyfully burning in violet flames They make her chest quake And her hips shimmy-shake As she tosses and turns in her sleep
In the morning she bursts into the daylight Fleeing the urgent shadows of the night And spins into the wind Which dances around her body And wishes it werenβt invisible As it glides across her skin
She wallows amidst the verdurous grass Bathing in the eager warmth of the sun That permeates her sheath of clothes To the soft shimmer of flesh underneath Her dark curtain of lashes flutters then closes As she breathes deeply while her mind floats elsewhere
She dreams of lace around her wrists and Rubies falling from her fingertips She wears a mollifying grin On her tender strawberry lips Surrendering to the rapture within
The earth splits open It craves to reclaim her In all her ripe and resplendent glory Her fingers curl themselves in the dirt
Violet eyes fly open A fierce gnawing hunger Has been ignited in the pit of her belly There is a pomegranate tree in the distance Its branches heavy and voluptuous with fruit On lithe legs she dashes to the tree Plucking one gently from its cradle
Once broken open Its swollen vermilion seeds gush forth To fall about her feet With a sigh she bites into the milky white meat Sticky sweet juice cascades past her lips And along the curve of her throat to tinge the skin pink She is filled to the brim Inflamed and engorged
She blushes And lets the ravished pomegranate tumble to the ground There is laughter on the wind
Born out of my love of mythology and metaphors. And the answer is yes, I have a predilection towards going sans-punctuation.