Twelve Heads A Small Price

I have seen the sadness in your eyes–that slow drowning, it is also mine.

 

And the way you plead your cries–the clamoring capricious stare, yare and young–toothless pleading old almost ancient now receding.

 

These sedentary habits interminably do lavishly let go, languid in their language, far and flowing down below; as an ancient dragon digging deeper I consent to nascent nagging evoked by the hero in your woes.

 

You should admit you were remiss, and now the fervent word would come close to fickle, as memories of me sweating body will not let go.

 

Little horn, seven eyes, seraphim singing off-key through the Ophanim. Enoch, the way back home is longer, take this noose instead, made of rope woven from the fictional fabric of your very existence.

 

we inculcated

sounds amiss

longing bells

that ring through

esurient valleys

where men and

women bacchcunted

like the hunted

limbs outstretched

while feet lost toes

through trite steps

called dancing

 

Cull commencing beneath a black sun

Hooded robes while  farouched canaries begin their song

Stoned giants quietly labyrinthed in postition

The conundrum seemed purloined

As the resolve was simply hid from the right side of the path

 

I want your daughter to dance for me in her idea of all opulence

Twelve heads will I deliver on four platters

Sliding whilst mounted upon sanguine sauce

Up to half of my kingdom will I allow her

If only she dances on you–her mother’s corpse

                                                          ∞