-♡-
ever since I heard love onerously breathe against marbled hearts,
the deathly narrative of its
soft ruination that entombed itself
in love's ornate elegies has become
my soliloquacious lullaby for the romanticized madness in the night.
ever since then
it has been an obsessive
religion to witness
obsidian bones morph
into beautiful porcelain
miscreations to dance
macabre fantasms atop
poisoned rose coffins,
greeting the moon as she
rose from her abyss who unintentionally harshly
illuminated the burning
glass tears adorning their
cracked china faces
and they spun and they
spun until their heads were
about to fall off and it was
beautiful to think that maybe,
it was the only thing
they knew how to do,
as they smiled at their
sorrow kissed damnation
and looked back at the
deranged moon, who was
clawing her way out of the
darkness's captivity:
screaming in anguish as gravity
held her back.
"she lost all grace," they said.
"she lost all grace," they danced.
"she lost all grace," they rotted,
and said no more.
the white serpent swallowed the
sun whole: his lustrous carmine
eyes cried ruby mythologies
as the maiden of the moon dwelling
in his irises sold kisses as coup de gråce, and showered lush pink blossoms on the corpses with the children of death who, along with
the white serpent, fell in love
with her.
she marbled their hearts with her bruised hands (another face of midnight, another silver flask
of rosè)
"Because after all, femme fatale
cannot fall in love," she whispered.
it was her sorrowful mystery, her tormented cycle of loving and
loving again, and falling and falling again when really, she just wants to love and to fall in love but may not
and cannot love again.
and she dances her way into
drowning in the foamy black
currents of velveteen poison
that the serpent helplessly
intoxicated himself on when
she left him.
the children of death rip
themselves apart in search for
any life in themselves in
forsaken belief that maybe,
they could bring her lifeless
corpse in their sullen arms back
to its loving state.
but my love, this is nothing but allegories of time; nothing but
love's genealogy, nothing but
beloved lullabies.
nothing but-
no.
no.
my love,
this is something ancient
ringing in my bones.
this is my creation.
this is when the sun
rises and legends
turn into a
mothertongue,
when the maiden falls in
love and mythologies turn
into a romanticized acrolect
this is when death wanted
life for himself:
when the serpent swallows
the sun whole.
-genesis-
-♡-
-every time you rise-
YOU ARE READING
love; and other disorders
Poetry"i just sat there, coughing frightful swans birthed from milk grapefruit flower love to swim in the pools of midnight, as you (with your fingers slightly touching mine) charmed the half-crazed moon with a rare rosen wine berry into what we were: a 2...
