he strung pearls round my neck
and I strung him from a tree
as he choked his final breath
I crooned, “save a spot in hell for me”

a kiss of red upon his cheek
the ghost of lust haunting his lips
as imprinted on his memory
as the bruising fingers on my hips

he thought me as a canvas
he could paint to be refined
pretty to be looked at
touched with detachment of the mind

the fool should have kept his pearls
and found another portrait to admire
for if you give me a golden candle
I’ll set your world on fire