She.

The trickle of sweet drops of molasses,
Conjure me useless in a heartless journey
Her feminine treacle of silk-
Slips down my throat and sinks into my soul
A trinity before me just within grasp-
But dissolves in touch like a ghost.

The tale of a juvenile investigator,
Discovering a capture
 —Of her buzzing ferocity
A bee within vision with a dream of being in a jar
To be dissected by my inquisitiveness,
Pollen and honey ooze and stick me
Encaged in the insects enrapture.

Into the lungs, coated with slick
Coughing up golden syrup but never begging for air,
Surrendering to her swift and sickly web.
And if to be released from the honey trap
A forever buzzing would linger
And a yellow glue would conjoin with my flesh. Inescapable.

She is an art that can never be captured.
Tales of primavera could not compare
As Botticelli would fail to view her as I do-
An insufficient world for her to live
Can be conjured up with my own masterpieces,
Yet it’s dissolved in acid hypocrisy.