Mourning on a twisted flower,
the fountain of youth tastes so sour,
like mouthfuls of putrid tar.
Trickling down my chin,
pale crimson; the epitome of sin,
for I feast by the arteries of infected stars.
And they would writhe,
in rose lit skies,
the sun slipping behind my dark eye,
set upon a...marble dream of spite.
Dressed in smoke,
the wedding gown of dead oak,
embracing her alike a see through coffin.
And, chasing butterflies made of glass,
I gazed into an absence that came to pass
when their mirrors danced virulently over my skin,
reflecting a moment's grace of purity,
birthed from the womb of obscurity.
Though she was no Snow White
breaking men like ice...
and choking, on the beckoning night;
a shadower's boon when the moon
glazed over.
And still I lie,
though the rain has stopped and dried,
on the grave of my dying bride.
Like a swan on a pond,
the clouds rolled like dust
on her fainting music that dawned,
a formal ceremony faded by rust.
Where I pick the petals off orchid veils,
sewing my bride unto a halo of nails,
with my hands ripped open wide
sculpting stones on my soul to remember the day she died.
And they will writhe
upon a tourniquet of knives,
the moons dipping behind my dark eyes,
driving painful sonnets into blind eyes.
The exquisite let down
burst into symphonies of lust,
shattering fragile hearts without a sound.
And the shards shimmer in morning light,
like the blood on dead leaves,
pouring down and sinking into my veins.
But still I lie,
although my pale tears have dried;
on the grave of my long dead bride.
