A psychedelic silhouette shimmers from my cigarette.
The purple smoke sculpture is created.
My monument to fiery sex
Is electric to the touch.
She breaks through the concrete
Surrounding the most private places of her life.
Ignition takes place
With every barefoot step she takes
Upon wet grass.
Rather then fizzle out,
The blades rise
Towards the blazing soles she possesses,
Imbibing the ashes that are reminiscent
Of the last incarnation of her spirit.
Even through the rain
She will keep walking.
Walking through the shady path
Leading to my patch of vegetation,
One bumper crop of produce
Surrounded by the fertile titian petals of the floral afterlife.
She grabs the fruit
And tastes the dew.
It is filled with nutrients
That can only be found
In this particular variety
Under the harvest moon.
She lies upon the seeds of the garden.
Violet waves wail violently
As she consumes the crop
Underneath the hem
Of her sarong.
Her skirt loosens up,
As does the brim of her secret stash of beauty.
Now she squeals
As every orifice of her body
Fills with organic juices.
Now she floats into the atmosphere.
She lays spread eagle as the sun awaits her return.
She lurks,
Waiting for the next opportunity
To descend to Earth
And attract herself to the poles of euphoria.

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