Woman Still

Sometimes my passion

is a raging beast.

Longing for the blood of its victims

to curl about the mouth

and claws.

Dripping down from a pant-heavy tongue

and half-closed eyes;

in this flesh-strewn way

I am wise.

And my breath will rise

soft through my lips

to coil inward and break

like a wave upon the shore

to wash away a thousand foot prints

and lay the sand clean

as it was before.

If blood is delicate

than death is soft

and I am a woman still . . .

 

Added 10/07/13

 

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