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Mirroring The Macabre
Let dead be my epithet and Four Roses my rum when it's all said, on parchment of red. Tuned in to the tonsured monks. No more flowers, Just dead words. Suffering ghost in my purgatory. Driving me mad with wandering desires. Fashioning, wanting to be fed. Torn to tatters in gothic pewter as my muse begins the beguine. Fox Trotting, mirroring the macabre. With the power to read souls. In a state of being, with a tight chemise. But, don't hide from me, sweet Javelina. Saving the last dance for me in the shadows of obsidian, beneath the rock of a man-made nave. As the silent butler crunches the numbers on the kiln. Come to me, my soon-to-be swooned dead. When it's all said, on parchment of red, with pillow talk.
Published 2nd Feb 2023
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