An ancient wind that hinted to council druids
Bounced about her hair, that captive fluid, uncertain as mood
She walked slowly, baronially, dowser-focused
Her eyes closed, enticing moment to utmost
Soot-throated, my back a suitable thronefront footstool for her
I am called cur, made renounce every ounce of me, truly I felt relief
For the first time when her ravenous fire ate my rehearsed face
In the end we all die mid sentence, mid page, lots unprofessed
The planned volumes will remain a space on the shelf.
Alchemisland 
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