His slightest of moves are shrouded
With just a pair of abandoned eyes
And the bloodiness of cranberries, smothered
Under his shoes, will not suffice
The elaboration his coat deserves
Or even his archaic lies I let my dry tongue
Run on his sour enigma
I grab the soil his shadow rests on
I am his very stigma Searching for heights to fall
Just in time for him to see.
Might I as well wish to catch
A glimpse of his angelic face
To find fear, shock or reluctant glee
On the sight of
The redness of cranberries and
The paleness of me?