Mess with me.

I'll bury you

With leaflets from my

Poetry tree.

The rare west wind

Will hunt you down

And turn your head.

An old, old holy spirit from the dead

Will reach up through the shoots

Of mystic love roots,

Pull you in to the clutches

Of the Lion, or in this case,

The Lioness.

Mess with me,

And you take on 

A form of death

Called Love.

So much worse,

Much more fatal,

It never ends, 
And, according to the Bible,

Never fails.

Mess with me.

Did Whitman say

It's lucky to die,

And that he knew it?

The beautiful clutches of ecstasy!

The Moon Goddess croons

"Killing Me Softly,"

And I will return soon for you,

So you can mess with me.

-jenn