Aphrodite sits massaging her temples,
while smelling perfume on her wrists.
Scent's vestige losing memory to
departure, till the dead pick up on it.
You'd think she's perfectly spent, but
she's water's thirst in the flow of her.
The beauty sleep of stones, adjusting
light to their changeable features,
unperturbed by their violent
connotations.
She is the one that tells desolation, she's
glad it opened up.
A lyricality that bursts wild berries in
bird beaks.
Never accusing you of seeing what you
want to see, her nakedness drives her
spiritual veilers to hysterics.
Their dearest Aphrodite will catch cold--
she just eases them off, mad to be taken
deep by being.
Panting at the ribs, you'd think creation
was being licentious.
