You saw it coming, made a painting, serotonin, before moody April. Inspiration sucked like a waterfall returning to its spring.
It saw me clinging, took a beating, left me feeling a wall behind skin.
The windy soul, highborn ghoul, has no hands to make me return. He howled at my back, I was nearly in the sack, a hooded soul drinking from a bowl of black nectar.
She painted the possibility of a lion in a dog, made a mark with her sword, and behold, the doggone days in the mane of the elemental beast.
