Dutch white lace draped over the ivory long table in a seraphic quilting,
A Gawain teacup, embellished with gossamer Eustoma, sat, awaiting,

Diaphanous beads of the chandelier glistened above the lone, ceramic plate in quietude,
A tender marigold light gorged the room, as a sweet ambrosia replaced the solitude,

The Lush curtains lapped, picking up dusks gentle zephyr from behind me,
Opened oak and a soft wheeling dusting away my momentary reverie.

Trays of glimmering cloches, were carefully escorted into the room,
All adorned with silken pink ribbons, delicate as spring bloom.

I pulled out the cotton sewn chair, settling atop its the feathered doily pillow,
And rested upon the cushion, the double doors shut with a slam and a billow.

Before me, sat one of the decorated cloches, sliver like a frozen over nebulous,
I removed the reflective veil with the careful touch of folding an origami pond lotus.

Painted over in a mellow coddle of buttercream, was a layered strawberry cake,
Smiling flash at the saccharine smell, I cut into it, only to hear a trickling sibilance like a snake,

Once warm light had begun to frantically holler and splash around the room in a bleary dim haze,
Like a lagoon's catharsis, the chandelier rung out and submerged the dining hall in a flickering glaze,

During the jolting flashes, I raise the fork to my lips,
The cutlery quivering slightly under the padding of my fingertips,

Cradled by my tongue, the sponge decompounded bitterly in my jaw,
I couldn't place it, but it just tasted so overwhelmingly metallic and raw,

Shadows and honey glows, rebounding, back and fourth, playing like hungry hounds,
Staining the walls like crushed stars, over and over like a vehement clever without bounds,

As the night fed, and the chandelier flickered, I kept gulfing coppery forkfuls of food,
Sludge in my throat, wet and warm liquid slathered my gums, thickened and crude,

The rhythmic pulsing of the room, betrothed to the flavour swelling inside me,
It's taste fossilised between my gums, still, I parted my lips, welcoming it, voluntarily,

I don't know how long had passed, but the lights convulsions ceased,
Leaving the ripe gleam of the chandelier quiet and leashed,

Now before me, I could see the latter of my impulsive, gluttonous panic,
Sprawled like a burning body, a bloodied matter of fondant was slumped over the ceramic,

Like a gored lambs underbelly the feast was rich with innards and breathing with blackened bile,
Trickling down, wallowing on my chin was a stewed crimson trail, dying a patchy smile,

So I just sat there, a cup spilled at my side, spewing a tristful poison,
In quiet reflection, just me, me and the vestige of what I have done.

The amethyst of her eyes writhed with maggots, laden in bile,
Spilling from the crystal in macerating clumps, thick and vile.

Squelching across her pupils, clouding her sclarea, they thrashed vehemently,
Glazing her cherubic face in the pulsing sludge of larvae beneath a peach tree.

The creatures tore apart her pores, crawling out, parasites moulding her skin,
Leaving a mottled rot gilding her features in divine black sin.

A sagging Gladius wallows inside me, limply,
It's rotting in its own wretched flaccidity,

I see others around me nurturing bounds of fruitful irises,
Some even mother sycamore, burgeoning with vigour, effortless as chaste kisses,

Tender fertilizer blots my chin in a bloodied marling,
I ingest the stolen soil, even when I feel the white sting of my innards' snarling,

So I'll inject myself with litres upon litres of putrid compost,
Only for my gladius to continuing shrivelling within my innermost,

It's stem-deep in nutrients, and is none the less decayed,
Atop the valley, even in the passing June, it stays, wilted withered and frayed,

Now, all I'm left with is the curdle of wetland moss festering in my blood,
Weighted with this fetidity, I let my gladius go, dead, in peace and clotted mud.

Baby's breath kisses the merlot tide of disease,
A brindled sea holds the white orchid of blanched dittany's.

Moonflowers scintillate with each cradle of dusk,
While Stars marl the sky, veiling over in cosmic musk.

During quietude, swans tread the ichor in a pearlesque flotilla,
The poison ripples beneath them as they thread between silk lilies and ivory scilla.

The gore strewn water continues to fester with pulsating, ripe, bile,
Despite all, the huddle of infancy will remain ever fertile.

Dripping with wild rafflesia, our home's halls reek,
As she walks, the stench interlaces with her, thick, fetid and bleak,

She reaches the dead-end, bringing the corpse lily to her lips,
I lurch an arm, but she's too far from my fingertips,

Now all I can do is watch as her teeth slowly, slowly, gnaw,
I'm there while her skin wrinkles like lapping sewage at shore,

Petals seep from her mouth in ****** clumps, gathering at the fold,
The dulcet caress of chewed flora blot her chin like gilded mould,

Her coughing tethers to the tantalizing ticks of the kitchen clock,
With no choice but to watch on, I stay until the final tock.