Wicked

Burial grounds unearth the ring
On your finger:
A coffin set in red
Crystal rock

As rich in color as
Your bloody knuckles
Before they scarred over.
Walls hurt.

Vibrant as the faux
Eyeliner you’ve painted
On, designed like
Ozymandias still stood tall.

Fastiduous and full of ardor
Like a bog witch
Performing a ritual
Deep in the forest.

Be a shaman to me, resurrect
Whatever it may be
That plagues your mind
And let me see.

I want to be a part of
Your world. Whatever swamps
I must wade through,
I’d love to.

For I can imagine the things
You’ve seen in those soulful
Eyes. What war paint you wear
To make art of a guise.

You’re beautifully wicked,
Hooded like an exile
On the run, casting
All kinds of spirit magic.

Wicked with the crops
You strain through water
And drink to have energy
And commune with the dead,

Wicked with the best
You bring out of me,
Weaving illusions where
Reality alters itself.

So much so I wish I had
Been drinking roses
With you much earlier
Than I ever could.

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