Upon paper wings,
He did mount his throne
Made of gold & jewels.

His treasure a product of the tearduct bleeding money from The State & Shepard.

The spiral of the drain.
The way she whispers the taste of *****.
The way skies spell the taste of mildew, mild sun, & the dawn of churning corn silk for the grove tender.

Ashes among & upon the frozen oranges still growing on branches;
Their heart still beating.

Still beating among & amidst the death rattle, death shroud.
Even upon the ****** tassels, hanging from the cloud shaped like a gun.

Icicles like a noose hang from the Beard of The King,
Which are the clouds;
The birds;
The ocean of the sin & spoiled milk.

In my throat.

Invocation of throat.

Upon paper wings they drifted like a swan,
Made of gentle hate & casual love.

As a goat were to smile with her & his heart, so are the wings infinate in their divinity.

"Where am I?"
She asked,
As she
Became the map.