...........

puppet string strangler,

it is i

who is the executioner

of the Goddess rapture

enveloping the sun

between our pslams

and wrapping our

flesh around you:

a wonderland of scars

and STILL!

you cage yourself

within the boneyards

swallowing the fire key

and devouring your darlings

with such fleetness that

it is considered artful

- when really -

it is the lashline of 10,000 tears,

that needed blotting out.

i swim,

curled hurling

downstream towards dreamworld

in a blissful fury.

all of the truth

and STILL!

the fallen angel rots,

searching for the thing itself

while singing their

monthslong swan song,

with mud and pomegranate seeds

smeared on their faces:

i turn into a Sycamore.