Head Of The Butterfly King

Boy’s got the head of a jackal and a serpent tongue; she’s got her gilded talons in the battle she’s won. Clarity comes cold; jolted into a sea of conscious awareness. Crowns of butterflies are laid upon the head of death. A crown of monarchs disintegrated before an angel with burnt wings; singed cape of greed. Blackened orgasmal headspace; I don’t want the taste of you to leave my lips, the immortal sting of your kiss. This possession has run dry, an old fashioned cuckold jealousy. I’m astounded by the oblivion that is you; a lecherous thief, a spasmodic cure for post-blue ambition. Your eyes hold heavy what the heart has borne for so long a period, lifetimes; and then we come undone.

Decadence

Rubbing the salt into old wounds; manufacturing big reds in exchange for baby blues. One fist in the well, its predecessor in the gutter before him; elusive desire, an enchant-less mistress. She writes valentines between her thighs, an old school temptation that I cannot afford to buy; no purchase necessary. Store bought fantasy; what you fake for him, I long for me. Temptress, temp me (oh, heaven help me) I see stars in your eyes, the face of a celestial envy; cosmic pitfall. But illusion is always dressed in someone else’s clothes. You buy me time, I’ll buy you drinks. Your reputation precedes you and your lovers will mislead you. Sick girl, sick one, my heart’s a tart when you’re only looking for a piece of fun. Glass valentines pricking the fingers, all shards discard. Fate misled me. No one’s ever glittered golden but we glow for others. I glow for another but you’ll never lose your shine. Bide me time, bide me time.