Pandora

She walks, her glowing, golden skin barely containing the soft, silken sinews, like velvet ropes that flex and ripple beneath the gold with each divine movement. Impossible not to watch her walk, loping like a panther with a languid, feline stride, a walk that's like a tickle in the throat of a man's desire, a walk that can't be ignored. Who could resist her? Aside all other women, she's like a sun to their moon, a blinding and warming nova, to their pale and cool light. That hot sun's radiance draws her men, like moths to a lamp, like Icarus, they come too close, their wings doomed to be burned, their souls, condemned to fall. Alone, they fall to face the wrath and scorn of the pale, pale moon. She walks.