The belt of Orion's blood-studded rosebuds blooms,
Melting ginger rhinestones into a pool of carmine plumes,
Vintage is this intricate lace sculpted in smeared eyeliner
A crystal ball,her glass monocle-I am the designer.

She injects black frost into her cashmere stream,
Infecting her psychic ghouls with her glitter-lung dream,
Spelling tales of forged embroidery on her shredded curtains,
Drowning out her broken screams,her midnight blurtin's.

With each daisy inhaled her black moon lifts,
And her psychedelic string of pastel clouds drifts,
Wisps of bleached horrors escape with the incense,
Stamping withered lilies over her grey wall of consequence.

Smashed bottles lie in their ankh-shaped constellations,
Scraping her heart with their graveyard revelations,
Dreamcatchers twist into crowns of Southern lakes,
And dawn knits smiles over the mess dusk makes.

In the end all it brings is a glimpse of the beast,
On whose table she shares her heart's last feast.