The fragrant mephitis of hopelessness lingers upon my tongue long after I have inquired of her. Her deceit hangs on my being like a neglected wind-chime noiseless in the silent air.
Like a beehive that expels its swarm, she liberates her past lovers, doomed to meander pathless woods, like shrunken fragments murmuring at her feet.
She is brawny and proficient at being the affectionate parasite. Leaving those in her wake with damaging wounds yet unknown.
Those who flee grasp at innocent determination, but alas plunged into damp solitude. For she, agelong has been in Don Juan's favor, since Rome first embraced her heroes.
But the ill-omend who fall under her spell, doomed to eek out dark centuries of shame, in a sad unallied existence. Their forgotten epitaphs written with the smallest of crow-quills.
Their souls dispiritedly begging the lone withered branch to reveal her new leaf.
-Johnny V.
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