She was like a blooming flower, amidst a bumblebee gangbang
so impervious, yet too delicate to even think about.
Conscious and vines,
wrapped within pines,
all inside this crosshair tabernacle tavern.

We watched her with her cadaverous swagger, jolt to the bartender and holler:
” I am hackneyed and blue-eyed, show me sufficiency!”
Thought and convergence,
intertwined with his
and we began, in a meade induced haze, to unravel her life.

She was a portrait painted in our heads, and the sun shone through, wherever we went.
Though, like most good things, bad things have better endings.
So sleight-of-hand,
and Gun in hand,
marching like deer in a peashooter parade.

What was thought, like the colloquial massacre, had rust and whiskey tied to the fringes.
Yet, this endeavor was passion-ridden and horseshoe-driven.
We are just saints,
angels in brown capes,
stealing her emotions, stealing her money.