oh deer

GOD IS A WOMAN

misogyny. she comes harbored by the labored crack of a hardened whiffle. red blood, red teeth, red stripes. a kaleidoscope of colors dance lovingly upon the temptresses softened skin. lacing leathery feel of cream coats with the blues, blacks, purples, and reds that seer within. whore. she is branded. a mirrors reflection of goddess, and yet an enclosure of war raging lions. observant. it is easier to ignore than to acknowledge. finger prints brand tightly into her hips and neck, bunching lacy red dresses upwards around her hips. touch, feel, bite, hit. it rushes through like a wafting flame catching the ends of a burning chariot. sending tingles throughout the doe like wardresses atom skins. though she harbors no touch from man or woman, she can still feel the affects of after taste. like a somber itch that refuses to go away - lucifers callous hands dancing upon delicate ribs. threatening to pull back defiance with quick meet. and, yet. this is her time. dancing feet weave throughout the moor in mid day, as if this path is one she has become all too familiar with. but - it is not. the unknown excited, and enthralled the softening doe. even as she frailed through the wafting suns. allowing the gods to bend before her feet and kiss the tips of her toes before casting her into the seas of firey hell. satans touch was gentle - careful within it's caresses. deceitful as much as the eye - but could still care for a whore no matter how many times heaven rejected her. and god have mercy had she been rejected so many times. shallow. her steps are counted and measured with such ease as the twining body of twig brown and cream cascades along the muck and mire as if she were a ghost. silent within her pursuit. she is a killer. sweet to the touch, and darling to the looks; but a harboring nightmare beneath those pretty manicured hands. aryah stumbles. celtic feel carries the heaviness of a princesses sagging crown. the way it dips beneath her brow as the doe like maiden settles before yonder day light as night threatens heavily upon the horizon to paint the skies. celtic eyes stare unto the blooming waste land, bruised hips carrying the wanderers further into this realm of gods and demons. disguised. she is a damsel in distress it seems, but a murderer under ween. stumbling. the drudged comes near, settling carefully upon the springs floors - dress gathered neatly within her bare hands branded by rope and scar, and so she waits.