She can't help but play with her food.

Twisting her zoodles around her fork,

then taking them on a stroll

through the thick red tomato sauce.

Her plate screams of earthly pleasures,

but don't be fooled,

her power –

as well as her plates power,

comes from the earth, itself.

As the stroll through sauce and spices continues,

a single drop of blood like sauce

spills over the east edge of her plate,

falling to the desert floor

to water the growth of a single rose.

The way poison penetrates royalty:

unexpected and straight to the heart.

But the rose does not become wary,

because it knows

beneath its soft,

luxurious,

blood-red petals;

it holds a gun in his hand.

Waiting to prick

the sorry soul

who uncaringly plucks

it's pithy petals.

One might assume

that this rose is relentless,

but don't be naïve.

I've seen a single tear

drip down it's scintillating stem,

much like the single drop of sweat

that leisurely salts the sternum

of the woman holding the fork.

Continuing between her breasts,

falling with the amplitude of a pinball

in an arcade.

Only to be stanched by her navel,

acting as a moat

that surrounds her castle like counterparts.

This reservoir of life

is defined by her lean,

angular muscles.

Her body radiates energy

as her mind stays hungry,

and her fingers caress the golden fork.

Twisting up another bite of zoodles

painted with increasingly monotonic,

red sauce.