the host creates the sugar for it’s parasitic leech,
tasting lulling, livid nightmares sucking nectar through it’s teeth,
and the juice begins to trickle down the corners of my lips,
as my wicked little sins start licking bitter fingertips.
the harvesters are making love beneath the mistletoe,
as the petals of delirium slowly start to grow
around the bioluminescent fountain of it’s frailty,
nestling in the velvet of the night’s serenity.
the soft orthopteral song of the weaver gently sings,
echoing the murmur of these dull decrepit wings,
and as the glitter of seduction slowly hazes down my face,
our nocuous but luscious efflorescent lips embrace.
all the sweetness left inside of me painfully secretes
down the aromatic stem where your sweet subversion meets,
and deep within my belly all the maggots start to slither,
as the flowers in our garden grown slowly start to wither…