Heated room, the fan blowing hell’s fire to the four corners,
Her sword’s aimed, blazing to the sun’s lost rays.

Morning.

She’s got sky ambitions for an earthbound beauty, rosetted
Corsage sewn to her wrist in blood.

Afternoon

Swilling tear drop infusions in a China cup, the afternoon pour,
A sick, oppressive humidity sinks her inside the sofa,

Evening

Chill in her spine, the night crawls upon her like witches’ wind,
Dragon’s breath in her hair.

Night.

No relief in sight, charred words will crumble onto cyber pages
Til rheumy dawn casts the garland crown.