Bare feet upon the morganite terrace, she licks like a lickspittle
The pure, pure air. Astounding princess to win over them all,
Sedentary and lonely below the last column of the wanting pyramid,
Her House's palace, to grovel everything there is to grovel
At. Unmeant she is, Elaine of Astolat, to her royal family's
Planned medieval ritual slaughter-a pyre against the flowerful
Pergolas with the fire of vices. Yet she does not care for their
Grisly betrayal. They are not the ones she would love to be
Betrayed by, nor accused and abused by. It would be far too
Easy to die that way, the princess thinks, and they are not the
Fatal flaw to lust toward, her favorite carnal fruits to finger for love.
It is the dragon she is after, the great bustling beast rampaging
The lickspittles and lickspittles, the number of them transcending
To the highest of the towering flowerful pergolas. It is him
She wants, to take her by the feet, to heed its claws and the matter of
Giving. It is the idea of her imminent self-destruction as she stands
Atop the ledge of the morganite terrace, as if the great beast will
Finally come to love her. She chases the feeling, the desire greedily,
Keeping away from her dear family, away from preservation.
It is all in the dragon's eye, the disgust that uses her, forever
Enveloping in sun-white, to look for his love alive, reborn and
Remembered again. Uncaring and selfish, she is, to breathe in
The big blue inferno she sees as a bouquet of wild roses from
His open mouth. And Elaine of Astolat becomes the seventh
Of the dragon's killed women. O Elaine, o Elaine, she never listened.
