The Cinder of Ella of the Cedars

Wood Nymph, wraps white gossamer legs in hello, as branch shakes in obvious "ka_ching"! 'Oh wait till you see what she does next", tattles the tree, in an excited and mischievous foreboding. Itself, a Familiar and Servant, hypnotized to carry and present her gift of wrap and wrap of gift. The naughty Nymph O pushes herself halfway up like a tired and cautious sloth (on the lip of a drinking cup.) An innocent look beguiles her face as essence of bark soils it's digits up, To stick like a sponge to her curves like a leech leeching much. Nurses a clamp to her soft skin as if to aspire seed of sapling in sap, sapping sin. As She stares through, impossibly pierced, her cruelly clumsy jiggle starks the eye in an ultra violence of lumplumpsum. The forest stirs with whispers of silence, gossiper secretions to soil more. Wood nymph dances careless, her story unfolding, merciless amore. Her web weaving legs, wrapped in ethereal grace, licks of delicate tricks of creature of delicacy. Surreal ad vise given visa visage it's enchanting embrace. The trees, they giggle with mischievous delight, as they await her next move, a magical sight. A familiar servant, the branches extend, presenting her gifts, their devotion, bend. Halfway she rises, cautious and slow, oh dear. Like a tired sloth, uncertain where to go but nearer near. Innocence plays upon her beguiling face, as she clings to the bark, leaving presiding trace. A sponge to her curves, the bark holds so tight, seeks to crumble there. Leaving a mark, a visible sign of it's mare. But she dances on, with a clumsy sway. A violence of debauchery in a mystical play, there there, tears tears tears. Her presence, it lingers, in the air, a fragrance, mimicking the soul bare. A poem to stir souls, in carom of supernatural resonance in crept. The wood nymph bewitches with every step, to numb your penance swept. Leaving an imprint of memory kept as plum-line erect. In the depths of the forest, her essence will remain, a powerful muse, never to wane. For she is a poet's dream, an excuse so rare, relished relic of the gone insane. Captivated, beyond complain, the Satyr's forehead yields sign, pops a vein.