Inside you stands the Ragnarök. Apocalypse of a different name because you were never one to care for the Rapture. Your eyes like eclipses, lips like mangos and passion fruit, skin soft like silk, hair like wool. Inside you lives Paradise.
I’ve become a minister of your love
confessionals to your body in night,
I love you,
tell you this on festive nights,
because you only enjoy praise,
these are words from a sinful man,
I would wrestle the Moon
and submerge the Sun
so they my fit as jewels in your crown.
Inside your stands the Ragnarök. Beautiful and terrifying. I’ve never been so intrigued.