The girl whose journal was full of poems and rose petals
Turned out to be a cruel hunter
Chasing young prey
To taste still shaking young flesh
On her cherry lips
With her heart hidden in her grandma’s chest
Mask on her face
Sucking nectar like a butterfly
Not caring about traces of pollen on her face
She can not see the extended hand
She can not hear heart beats
Nobody is patient to plant a tree
The fruit of others tree is more erotic
Nobody thinks of growing old gracefully