I find the allure of burgundy hues,
          not one for the corpse of grapes,

                                                              being  

squeezed of every essence of life...

But the allure haemorrhaging forth..

I could be buried within this collage of
                                                      elegance.
­
And when I dig myself from it,
                      
I would  paint,
  
                                seeing  a picture of vigour.



Not the outline that others see ,
                                                when
                its chalk lined on the canvass.

Its not deceased,

                           this moment has only just breathed.

We are but cadavers of memory,
                   cleansing the shore line


of word..

But sometimes we find
                that this shell will inexplicitly wash up again


more polished than before.

An attire of cadaver obsidian
      hangs upon the expiration

of every fluctuation.

Weaving sorrow on every passing.


Considering the folly of her motionless
                                  endeavour.

Her garb falters and  decomposes
              below her narcistic

                                                pondering.


She is neither Earth or Air,
                but a decompaction of

reflections fading over time..

I think my mind just threw up
                       in my subconscious.

Chunks of metaphor,
         smelling the bile

of an idiots question..

Bandeau effortlessly draped
                    over her physique.

I wanted to open my gift.


  As the sash descended,


                              she bit her lip.

We throw roses as the thorns cutting
deeper than death..
But we never know as our existence was forsaken.

Aren't we worth more than the stars..
But alas we are the folly of crows picking aimlessly,
                                 and the obituary of dissolution.