𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫.

cerulean cries

"Achelous, why is the lake so blue?"

            he tried.
  he cried
and soon later, he died.

    his eyes of blue shed illicit monarchic tears
          a lapis lazuli aftermath of woes,
     he crafted forbidden love with a woman from the kingdom's foes
               and they, together, saw stars
nebulas written in their sobriquets,
            voids swathing them in velvet blankets of concinnity,
     icy wastelands nurturing rivers of stars;

                HE TRIED but a father's approval is
         forever harder to possess than
for the lavish and bankrupt to coalesce,

"Execute her."
of course, the king's orders.
nevertheless, it was always the poor who gave the moneyed their value
and so now, the prince was left with her tomb
as his only souvenir of her
her once milk bones now,
a skeleton collection of thorn roguery,
her spine now a fallen stem of a red poppy,
she's now a pomegranate corpse put into eternal rest by the
lulling moontide only accessible to the murdered;

HE CRIED pearls on a thread from his tear duct,
his cheeks now stained with tragedy written in mágoa,
and engraved with crystalline tear stains
that cascade down in streaks of the maiden's signature;

melancholia's tears are diamanté masquerades
for ire's blood,
his lips met with hers (the tombstone of his passed paramour)
lips are now tainted with agony in hues of the ill-lit,
his tears were shards of wine glass,
piercing through the soil of the boneyard;

he's now crying in a void pit of nothingness in the forest
his eyes of blue shed illicit monarchic tears,
a lapis lazuli aftermath of woes,
for most women had love to bestow,
his woman was six feet below;

crying bitter honeysuckle sealed love letters
from above ground to the wisp of lady corpse,
was his only communication to the silenced
it was the saudade she couldn't return her mouth was overflowing  of vermillion roses,
her trachea choking on thorns,
she was only dreaming in a museum of
silver ceilings,
ivory milk fountains,
and exhibits brimmed of love's intoxicating sillage;

salt-tears from eyes of azure,
fled the pit
he fashioned a lake of ultramarine tincture,
with the weeping of despondency
he created mosaics of misery,
in every shade of phosphenes
he cried from eyes of gunmetal blue,
a sapphire lake of salty tears to dissolve,
for his deceased lover to season her unsalted,
from six feet underground;

HE DIED with drenched eye slits and weakened bones,
the universe hearkened at his wails,
every vocal doused with venom
now the dead corpses of,
the prince and the maiden,
were chasing the essence of moondust,
together, even in level, sunken in the depths of royal cages,
they kissed the moon's scintilla,
and baltered on the rocks of saturn's ring,
they were the partners pirouetting in the,
vintage music box of moonlit euphony chimes;

they banqueted on pomegranate seeds,
bathed in moonglow,
inhaled cosmogyral atmospheres,
donned in syrup of honey's bane
and, she, wore death like claret laced dressing gowns
and, he, wore death like lavish cologne;

his skin was forever carved by her acidic lips.