Honey is Strange

Two flowers did bloom,
Upwards, they did bloom.
And created a nest!
Indeed, created a nest.
A nest of strands, velvet and black;
And those two flowers,
They’re two legs, made for plucking,
As honey drains between them.

Feeble woman of great talent,
Make this bed under the moon,
Or under the sun,
For it does not matter.
I see thee, with a face so smooth and watchful,
Engrossing all there is to see,
Of you, in a mirror of hardest glass,
Though, of two legs, there is nothing better.

There is, of two legs, the aroma of a field,
The meadows of Heaven, where both of us
Walk among them, breathing the Heavenly
Scents of the strands,
You breathe it, and I breathe it.
I face it, and lay my head against it.

Lay down thy blessed body,
Upon the quilted garb,
When you’ve undressed yourself.
Show thyself to the world,
Your idleness is a thirst forthcoming,
Unto the thickened winds.

Beauty makes us both tattered,
As tears rain to drain,
And honey is so strange.
Under the shadow of virginity,
Blessed honey, with age never a factor,
For its hued resplendence.

I take thee into a cradle of birch,
Form thee a blanket made from those strands,
And cover a world with them, too,
I fall with your world, as elegantly as you do,
Love and lust is here for comfort,
Scents as one, timely and done.