War

Those crackling flames of the bonfire seemed to create an invisible effervescence as it burnt with the air that was wafting the smell of evening ivory flowers.
The trees of which had branches on which sat the finest winter songbirds in the color of the darkest of pure blood, the one waiting to burst out of the finest most polished tip of feminine demure.

She was waiting for the first batch of birds to create a shadow over the porch.
She looked, intently.

She would pierce the tip if she could smell choler in the air.
The whiff of sweat trickling down the labor beaten chiseled features, down like a wave rolling out in the shore, before beating into the boulders courageously yet with the poise of a practiced high class masseuse, the luck of the sweat drop she thought, rolling down very much like the gleaming ball of oyster extracted pearl when she unclasped her pearl necklace and it slid in the time wasted after the unclasping along the mighty curve of her coveted bosom, the sweat drop rolled, in thrifty articulate gallops along the cuts of his bodice, and they'd smoothen out into a run disappearing into his loins.This made her swell in delight.
And the songbirds coo'd as the giant tree shed a blossomed ivory flower a little away from her lap as her long legs curled in a chasm of prayer for him.

Yes, she prayed.

His eyes were sore from the mud in the air.
He was ready to rip, to be ripped.
A familiar roar that had till now threatened the nights of his love, as she lay limp in his arms.
Breathing in quick huffy moans into the circle of his mouth.In the cold mornings of early winter as she tossed in bed.
Clutching him like a stolen prize ready to be sacrificed to the throes of the games of the world, almost anticipating in her frail mind of a tragic end that fate offered her before she could yawn in her sleepy fit.
He crackled his whip, lashing it fiercely in the air.
Creating vacuum.
Atoms whipped in a whirlpool of nothingness.
In place, rose and fell ounces of sand.
Cruising his body like a fleet of royal security.His eyes were shut.
He could hear better then.
And he did, the heavy drone of hot salivated breath that wafted carnivore massacre, he could hear the panting of the pride of the mightiest of animals, the lion , his predator, so he could fetch her the herbs, she would anoint on all the armors and shields in their abode.
It lay across the crowded growth of wild foliage.
Right after the endless stretch of a moat that the animal had found its way around.
In a quick circular movement he would be elliptically parallel to his victim.

He laughed a cough.
His eyes were still shut.


To rip, he thought.

The lion braced its stride in heavier paw shuffles as it eyed its grand offerings of the day, and chased so as to enjoy the smell of crafted flesh before it let the human gamble its sharper animal instincts.

Her fingers tapped in a uniform dance, one in succession of the other.
She suddenly sat still.
She breathed from the ivory flower, the one he'd have put in her hair as he planted wet kisses over her sun dried gleaming skin, draped over the softest of the broadest womanly shoulders.
She broke into an involuntary pink flush.
She knew how accurately he had studied distance and acumen, the bull's eye.
What was more, he though not a disciplinarian was crisp enough to follow these principles in the sparkling moonlight that painted the crystal green ocean as her shoulders were grazed by sand on the deserted oasis , undiscovered , as she made love in nature's crest.
He'd come back to her.
It was just the ticking of seconds of his absence that made her so impatient.
She felt like a scavenger searching in an untread wilderness with thorns hedging the path that secured her from it.
He had measured its distance, as she kissed his bruises.

Her mind was in a kaleidoscope that filtered reality and surrealism that dissolved in her own construed apprehensions.
She believed.
The branches were aflame.
The songbirds were taking off into the evening horizon.
But believing in disbelief as she saw again the intact branches justified her senses.

And in a shrill short cry of frustration she tore open her evening silk coat, inside of which was the finest laced corset in the color deeper than the evening red of the sullen sky.
Animal instincts.
As she stepped into the pond across their backyard.
Cradled among oak trees, like her between his arms, straddled.
She couldn't wait.
The animal in her had run away into the wilderness, far away.
She immersed into the scented pond nurturing flower beds that infested their magic in its womb.
She bathed in it.

The evening air was cool and a fresh shower of sand enveloped the air.
Just following the scents that his olfactory acknowledged.
He was tired of lashing the feather weighted crocodile skinned whip polished and wound in sheaths of finer skinned leather.
The clouds eclipsed by the fleet of returning birds, told him, she was in the pond, by now.
He was man.
She made him the animal.

The lion roared.
He had had enough.
He ran straight into the direction opposite of the wind cutting in zig zags as he jumped onto the back of the lion.
He would ride.
He would ride hell.
Through the animal's hell.
The King of all animals.

He wound the whip into swift coils with quick withdrawal movements and ducked to fall onto the ground and roll over to his feet.
As the animal lay leg tied.

He could wait for a tease.
He would like one.
And he quickly thought about the lion.
In front of him.
Struggling, almost free.
He ran up, straight over its back and landed like a dart on the pivot of the lion, his feet, and he lunged forward in the air and struck the throat of the lion as he jumped backward onto solid ground.

He walked into normalcy.

She stepped out of the pond.
Soaked in sweet scented sticky juices.
She would dress up in the finest of creamish silks woven in spring.
And wait like the most beautiful ice queen waiting to melt in the sweat of labor.

And she dismissed the arrival of a potential future storm cloud.
She bent a full arch and touched her toes, straightening her toe ring, woven and flattened iron carved to look like flowers, she moved her hips outward and pouted while smacking her lips wet.

She knew he was coming.
The air had a distant smell of sand.
The galloping of a horse.
A click.
Thuds.

And in a quick turn she was lifted off her feet as she locked lips.
The ones that met the deepest of secrets and stirred them for some more.

She stepped back.
Made a face.

Raised a brow.
Beckoning a war cry.

She invited him with the most tunefully heavy voice clouded by a crisp mysticism waiting to be shed.
She said to him "Make war"

He blinked.
The roars of pleasure were long decorating the air.
War.