Leo
The tar-pitch stare
of your twin sibling scimitar sights
resembles a bullwhip's warfare
and the fat-steel downthrust sag
of blood, ink, and fury.
Laquered with ripe fats of veal
velvet-footed and doe-eyed,
porcelain crescents milk foalhide;
one's routine is another's ordeal.
And while constellate star lights
wrap your will-o-the-mist halo's flare -
the hollow hue shift of eventide -
my mulberry syrup dyes
your black cherry dinnerwear;
but all what stalks my last breath,
is not a thing such as death.