Calling
Boughs stretch between your thighs,
And a melancholy thought overtakes me,
That winter delays its arrival,
And I cannot draw you near.
I linger in a cruel stupor,
Chewing on wood within these walls,
While above your brow,
A forest with antlers unfolds.
I await your awakening,
Like the "Sleeping Beauty" in the woods,
To gently tread upon my smile,
With such tenderness.
The pallor in my eyes,
Lies concealed in the rustling grass,
Softly hiding itself
At the edge of your roots.
