Fifth Fair

Taste you. There is such heat in you, hot, harsh, stark, dark as wine. In your hand! Heard you, darkling. Wind from the turret animates your boughs. Bothering your locks. There you are. Galvanize you; fever you. Embraced the shock from your sinews, oaken at a touch, thrush-passionate. Despaired, for the cold of your midnight, wearily and dessicated yearned for your labyrinth; Longed for your fair, pale, willow-pale, tattooed, supply and tenderly shattered pomegranates. Long for you, for your chest, holding firm only in its mutability. A regard! There! You are us.