Dust kicked up by boots in the auburn dusk,
Fire alight with June's angry ire,
A lover scorned,
Willing to burn with her most righteous of anger,
Plucking out angry chords upon a silver and brass lyre.

Clothing hugging tight,
Leaving nothing yet everything to the imagination,
Sweet temptress of addiction and spite,
Eyes blazing green like a copper-fueled flame.

Cheekbones so sharp that it slices the air as she passes,
With those ****** features only second in their cutting potential when compared to her razor words.

Legs like stilts,
Going all the way to the moon,
With heels that could have punctured the hands of Christ,
That could just as easily be used to keep one's casket securely closed.

Those eyes seem angry,
We should probably start running