She wanted to touch the thorns
and every living organism that would brought her to her knees,
subtle and dangerous; a gargantuan curiosity peaked and intervene;
affinity faded into something frivolous,
perspective flashing ruby before dawn broke.

she wanted risks,
and short-live melancholia for her far-fetched disappointment
when she found the magnolia had ceased to bloom
in an early spring,
and by Tuesday
she had forgotten her name purposefully,
a woman's folly always bound to be questioned anyhow.

'twas the beginning of her decadence, one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five,
a withered English rose that lovers wouldn't infatuate,
nor they would let her stay at their den.
a stunner devoid of attention;
a story abound of illusion,
unmeasured;
but a gaze in her eyes,
I melt.

never had I seen a creature so free,
never had I seen a curve of smile preened,
and swathed with such glory.

free;
or so as I believe.

free.