Literature
A Love Potion, Of Sorts
Turns out, the witches got it wrong.
You see, real love potions do not smell of roses.
The stench of blood will knock you out
Long before the romance takes hold.
And not a swoon into a lover's arms,
But a hard thud onto the cold floor.
The books told of honey, sickly sweet
Pinch of rosemary
Dash of strawberry
But love isn't sweet
(though sickly I shall not deny)
So I'd suggest swapping the honey
For a fungal colony
A mould to root itself on bruised tissue
Watch it spread, grow, consume
Forget the swan feathers
White, dazzling
And false
The talons of an eagle should suffice
So skilled are they at clutching victims
They'll c