drenched in onyx ocean’s armor
army of solitude sheathe
content with nothing less than ardor
that writhes like tempestuous seas
her words sting inflection most dual
where notions of knowing concede
subverting convention though cruel
auspiciously sowing her seed
immutable thoughts put upon her
dry as mercurian mead
visage besotted with somber
neath crimson devonian sweep
as remnants are rent upon her wake
embellishing tempest allures
the advent of all one would forsake
to relish in context so pure
but nary a tale ere hath regaled
in squalid halls of ill repute
for fear of the wrath which she impales
once bold turned to stolid refute
should eyes sympathize her meander
with haste caution cast upon wind
a wicked demise thou wouldst pander
a siren emblazoned of sin
Max, or Not 