H*la lo ab...

Out of a Pink Rose bush she is,
out of a naive village she is,
she is a man's fantasy parade,
she is a dreamer's heathen spleen.

She fluttered like a neon flower,
when I asked her to grace my abode,
true to her instinct,
she flinched and clinched,
and hoped to see me alone,
while nobody watching her come in.

We danced the wonder Waltz,
we sand the jaunty Blues,
the gunpowder of ecstasy,
crept in the veins of our melting bodies.

The dove she was then,
the tigress she is now,
her demands for the flesh,
grow by the motley second.

Moments remain,
till the explosion of love,
but she finds me inadequate,
she gets up and leaves.

The steam is burning,
but the heart drowns.

The room is dead,
her smell circles the grief mound.