“Red, red, black, black, red, red”

Wardrobe filled with white and grey,
drawers full of black stockings and silky panties.

Blond fluff soaked with raindrops and whispers.
Goddess- shaped alabaster body
lying on the kitchen floor.

Blue eyes hidden in a fog,
shiny, carmine lips half open,
sipping wine from a man’s hand.

Bony wrist decorated with a golden watch
that stopped at twelve o’clock.

Bedroom air perfumed with roses.
A dried daisy on the nightstand.

Call her Elizabeth and count to fifty.

Listen to her steps fading in the hallway.

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Burned Roses

God loves his witches.

Listens to their prayers,
grands wishes.

Every fall drinks a cup
full of their tears, screams and whispers
and brings them back to life.

Decorates their paths
with rain of golden leaves,
baths them in the evening fog.

Women with burned roses pinned in hair,
eyes as cold and hypnotizing
as the moon enlightening the sky.

Each year they fall in love
with the sounds of wind
dancing in the streets.

God kisses them goodnight
blurring sweet, chilly air
on their tired faces.