I look to the women who smell of gardenia,
whose lips have been kissed by roses.
How they sway so gracefully,
giving life to everything they touch.

One cannot help but to be enamored by their beauty.
Each word from their mouth feels like honey to the ears.
So gentle is their touch, a caress that draws you near.

But every time I touch a flower, it soon withers and dies.
I try and emanate their loving touch, but claw marks are left, and everything around me turns to dust.
I pray to the moon, hoping she might teach me these secrets of the feminine,
yet I seem to lack this untold beauty that they hold.
I am wild and rash, too loud and brash.  
Banshees and Wolves are the feminine in me,
but yet I long for the beauty that is gentle and clean.