Springtime

There's a tune in the air, of bittersweet rasps,
It wisps through your hair, without many a grasp.

A rhapsody of song, it neighs, it prongs,
Poignant it may be, its seemingly wrong.
Your mask of tears, of woe, of fear,
Diffuses through the melody, it makes it unclear.

Tangerines of scent, they twitter and fly,
Now look, dainty maid, at the butterflies cry.

Curls and furls of unjust lust,
Poof, these tendrils, they turn into dust.
We had our secret recipe, my delicious wife,
But time has come, where I shall sample your life.

.dss, undated.