count dadula

                        Ash to the sun,
            Weak to a clove-of-garlic gun;
    Cursed by a lash-lick,
My heart is won
          By three too-grown girls
            With smirky smiles
        Hung on smart-ass curls.
  I’d wind-skip the sky for miles
Just to say they’re mine,
  And fearsomely display
        My fangs grin-hidden—
                                Who am I kiddin’?
                  Teeth bared to feast,
        A batty beast in the bleachers;
  Shaking wings with their teachers,
I shrink away into devious brow:
    I drink down their love
          And then,
    Once sated, flit again
Back to my dark cave somehow,
                  Where frames of their faces
        Safest-keep me
  Walled in from basest depravity.

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    Poetry: Emergence
        https://windstrewn.com/2019/12/04/emergence/