I once met a mademoiselle
weeping cherries and petals on her cheeks.
She beseeches the quiescence
to consign her tears
for the god of the abyss
to kindle flames throughout the surface
of a foolish queen.
She offers her blood to form lines
created from an account
of a region of spacetime
that even light cannot escape from it.
Darling, enough provoking a poetess
to put you in silence
through commanding her self-created gorgons
and make you your statue of travesty
and forged artistry.

These are enough to shatter one's domain,
if and only if that poet will claim
the revelation of a monster
beneath the original creator
of a ******* world
through the inks exuded by the great gutsy spider.
That is how a poet bespeaks
the reused and reclaimed epistles
of the mythical raging Dragonite goddess.