[Cereal_Killa]

Topic: It’s the only thing important any more

Serpentine
..


..
Submerged beneath a masquerade of romance in my silhouettes’ flaws
A Gypsy with turquoise tears from a dans'ѐ macabre through La Petite Mort
Embedded in sweat, organic thoughts and a mosaic carriage of iron ore
Archaic; yet delaying decay curled in a ball, crying out my silent mourn
From two to one
I am a glyptic eclipse
Cut from the sun
My substance is charcoal; spun upon a floorless balcony of self love
My shell dwell’s where it was hung
By my soul as an eternity ring unstrung
..
Amongst the high Alps of Norway through a river of shattered snow
On a mountain crest I remain, within a single cabin of truth n’ limestone
Pillowed by my own internal walls of security; I’m warmed for a winter
Of endless blizzard’s that pulsate like the re-birth of a Variable stars flicker
A wish, A wish; I wish upon
that my snake skin suit was suited more like a cut Satyr as if Spring/Sprung
Through the fields of grass blades and the frozen tears of reality, smeared
I slither with the perfect imbalance of a scenic contrast in faith and fear
My internal organs ache, not of pain but rather the same extracted shame
That though I want to change
I don’t for a fact WANT the change
Feminine by sound n’ by morals, I seek a feast fit for a Duchess or Duke
As I clear beyond the coming hatchlings through the chicken’s coop
I brush past the barbed wire fence, translucent with my bread crate
And contort my thoughts into a question to fit my new found sense of taste
At what point do we believe that a chicken can no longer menstruate
Within that moment of enlightenment; I pause as my blood runs amaranth
Spilling like oil altering in the rain from off a canvas of palanquins
Support beams, upright to lock in dreams of freedom for me to penetrate
Though their post caught me off guard, I still horde enough eggs to embrace
I place the crate on the bench and the eggs inside the pantry
I open the stall; sit as wonder wanders in entrancing
how pure is powder in purity amongst white panties
As the interior tiles get embodied by one subtle sound advancing
My door opens to a male n’ female, blonde to their knock knees
Fresh beyond their age of grace, stung by a rapport in subtleties
Forged from an orchestra of innocence, with a scent to adorn
BLISS falls from their very tongue in defence, a percussion of sorts
I’m pregnant and I need a place to stay from these wild winter storms
It would be my honour
Followed by the truth of my inner thoughts
From one Chicken Hawk’s daughter to another, I am ready for war
With my rosso coursa tints coursing in a shimmer to outline the arch
From off my shoulders peek, in a flutter of curls on my pale contrast
I place my fragile bones in the palm of his child like charm, alight
As the beating heart of his unborn flesh now taps before our eyes
From the porch to the hall, to the calling ice and smoke on the rise
He drops my hand to shadow the footsteps of a young mothers stride
falling short
Broken beneath the progressive growth of momentum, he slides
..
Her will; A motif of emotions sewn by the threads that Othello once clutched
I came to the realization a chicken coop looks prettier when it’s covered in blood
As she takes a breath, by a lake, in the clearing near a stoop of barbed wire
I reach from behind, dragging a sickle from around her abdomen to her vagina
Then back again
I remove her stomach lining with the birthing sack still attached
I extract the fluid; contracting from each sip in each painful splash
Even when I purge, I fuel off the birth, pause and continue my cycle
As the young man so innocent lies, by-standing with her vitals
Ahhhhh

If you don’t appreciate something it will lose its true value
Or the pure volume of its nature shall wither without you

So join me young man
and we can taste the fruits of your labour
..