the dust of Morpheus mists your vision
while Poe and Wilde linger at the tomb
discuss portraits and Annabelle Lee
You will descend, my dear
steps from reality to mad cacophony
hidden laughter chimes its manic bell
your perfected self is heedless
until spectral hands chill your face
a sibilance of whispers writhe and burrow
hook their glinting cause within, though you are the apple
from which that worm has crawled
your bosom white as casket lilies shudders, yet
you cannot, will not pull free of darkling touch
the canvas more garish as you work, daub in
Venus"s flytrap, the nightshade bloom, narcissus
at its center, the inferno melts your brain and heart
Try to turn away, my dear
Elysian fields hold no mystery once you"ve tramped eternal blooms
you pollinate your dreamworlds with blood dust
cradled in blossoms soft as funeral silk
bony fingers that snare your imagination, then your arm
are mutilated, corrupt and it is paper that you feel
not parchment flesh that scratches
you seek a demon lover through lifetimes
black-lace parties, angst-filled wine and candlelight
rotting breath and broken, blackened teeth chew
greedily your neck, your heart wants more
selfish hunger you taste false remorse
one-time friends and lovers have turned to morsels
Do not believe it all, my dear
Gypsies caged by flame and shadow
pa.s.s bottles more than ancient secrets,
down warmth not found in guarded eyes
smoke sour tobacco, torture tamed wood until it screams