Not Canon of Beauty

Among the autocratic bubbles in where the universe roams,
a rambling gambler
lays a set,
and upon flipping the queen of hearts
the melancholy ferments in his eyes
for fallen raisin pupils of pick for the lady.

Hope of freeing the woman in her confines
from the second dimension of her dual inverted persona,
but not knowing that this depression is not beautiful
and that robbing the heart of the queen with a milky worm won't cure it.

He drags her from her portrait 
pocketing his three of a kind
and in the dimension of this erected earth,
the queen adjusts her head scarf and tosses her crown,
sits to stammer for a while instead of knighting him for this apparent new will.

And her head scarf may have shown gold,
but, in the light of this compliance, bleeds a duller manila.
The hearts of her insignia dissipate as the man tries to race
those lofty balloons.

He thought of if he had rescued her.
She looked better stamped into the card with the other maidens.    

So he fell on his three of a kind,
saddled the clubs, spades and diamonds as wraiths of witness to his passionate stunts
while the incarnated queen
suffocated in enfolding pillars
from both the moon, the stars and aurora borealis,
Mars, Venus and Morning Star 
for it was not canon of beauty, 
but an electric pulse of meaninglessness
shredding through the axons of the nerves that parasite the veins
of the detracted hearts in which the lady bathes
in the lamprocapnos flower
budding off in her toxins to the human feel.