jealous of the Sun's light
where shall I place you?
To sharpen the memorial
amongst the stars that I have prayed for
poised to heat up the pressure.
My left lung,
my haunted cabinet,
my neonate rum between the ego
the old sleep that I miss much
has ritualized of an unchaste election.
Oh, to capture of her portrait of swarthy blood
and the fallen tears of an outcry's titillation.
What a wrathful rebellion
against that tide of her ministry
such an ireful descendant
rises the candle of a white smog's posterity
it's an unread revelation.
I could foresee the pale visage of a Black Widow's reek in tumult.
She had appeared before the window
of the chamber's right side without remorse.
She had no pill for a hero.
Her screech had been like a collision or worse
of an infinite cusp
to hide through an enfeebled touch
of a thousand howls crowned in a supermoon's flask.
Nightfall had brought a final mirror
whose broken name had been pronounced through the mass
indubitably oxidize a darker witch's hour.
The old folktale was born to feed the lion's wrath.