My nest—a tomb of filth and bile,
Left to rot in wait,
Until the festering completes,
And slime corrupts my state.

When looking up from far beneath,
They never feel the doom.
I hide it under golden ropes,
Accented with perfume.

The smell alone is not enough
To lure them inside;
That’s when I lower diamonds down
To try and turn the tide.

Once they latch, I slowly pull,
Entrancing them with song.
They always take a while to learn
That something’s deeply wrong.

I dance and whisper hollow dreams
To keep them entertained,
But spells are brief, and in the end,
They all must be restrained.

I weave my blackened cord around
Their bleeding, beating hearts.
Contentment fills their minds,
As sorrow aches within their parts.

That’s when I make my move,
Striking them with mud and puke.
Forever here my victims stay,
Within my endless fluke.

Your heart keeps in rhythm
to the ocean waves,
I become delirious
to your lasagna's special mince.

There are good things....
And then there's bad.....

There are the heretics,
forced to flee
burning of their flesh
despite if of purity.
Forced to flee the country,
the smell of pork in unison.

I plant roses behind your ears,
My lady who I've loved for years,
and in a moment comes tidal screams
and I wish this was just a bad dream.

The ocean suddenly comes to life
before I could call you my wife,
and the thorns are prickling blood,
down your neck a dribbling flood.

And I realize,
I should have snipped
away the sharp
confliction
of the red radiance.

My phantom came to me, a situation so unforeseen.
This dark romance is putting me under some type of trance.
His voice so deep like a thunderstorm. I'll happily breathe him in like he is chloroform.
His eyes so dark like the ocean sea, never do I want to wake up from this fantasy.
He is now everything to me, this spell I never want to break free.
This mysterious phantom, I will do anything for him.
He is craving his way into my heart, mind, body, and soul. He has taken complete utter control.

My love, my obsession, my life, my addiction.
My Phantom.

While thoughts escape
Like water evaporates
There is enough moisture
For my massaging palms,
To grip the pink putty,
And shape your perception.

If there is art in sculpting
The very nature you see statues
Staring back in awe of your philosophic tangents
Wrapped upon the senses, as you can taste words
And hear flavors, while seeing sound
As I play maestro.

Does the soothing touch
Pinching and pulling clay
Release enough dopamine
To unfurl those brows
And turn a frown into a grin?

Can you feel the synapses fire like pistons
Grafting new sensation
Causing involuntary motion to feel like an ordinary choice?
Does the gift I’ve given in the foresight of what was
Now seems so prolific as I change it,
Sculpting you, molding every secret
From you, like god, malleable mud
Into a fire kiln vase -
And break you just the same as terra-cotta