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.