Blood Of A Poet

Those eyes were a rage
Only the flames were so alluring
They would turn grown men into school-boys.
They would make a poet wish
To be a moth diving into it’s death.

And she knew it.
It made her invincible.
She was Queen Nefertiti.
Aphrodite. Clementine.
It made her feel beautiful.

You see,
There is nothing sweeter than the taste
Of the blood of a poet.

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