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.

Hush, Love

I think I loved you in every universe,
Every timeline,
Every fragment of creativity,
In every self-proclaimed artist's mind.
I think this love exists outside of time.

It's tragic—
Hurricanes on Jupiter,
Tripping us up, ripping us apart.
If we get too close,
We'll get it right eventually.
Until then,
Close your eyes.

Hush, Love.

You and I
Were never states at war,
Only states of chaos—
CHAOS,
chaos.

I had that dream again—
Mesopotamia, 722 BCE.
Between the politics and the bathhouse.

Your kindness, my cold, cold heart.
I broke all your chains.
I know the cost is my beheading.
We'll escape in the middle of the night.

Hush, Love.

You and I
Were never states at war,
Only states of chaos—
CHAOS,
chaos.

The world
Views it as black and white
You're turning red, blue... translucent,
Between the politics and the internet.

Your kindness, my cold, cold heart.
I broke all your codes.
I know the cost is my cancellation.
We'll stay up until the dawn breaks.

Hush, Love.

You and I
Were never states at war,
Only states of chaos—
CHAOS,
chaos

I know we could lose everything
If we get too close
In every universe, every timeline
But I won't lose you
And you won't lose me

It's tragic—
Hurricanes on Jupiter.
So close your eyes,
Gliding on fragments of...
Stardust

Hush, Love.

We will never be states of war
Our love exists outside of time.
It's—
Beautiful.
Golden.
Chaos.

Ok, dear

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.

Disassociating in the ebony mirage,
I called your name, knee deep in that tender visage,

You didn't answer, so I sung to the fireflies at my windowsill,
I kept crooning, but I knew they never really cared for my fill,

Serenading until my throat was limp and hoarse,
I left it bruised indigo with mellifluous force,

By both the luminescent bugs and the Empyrean sky,
My ballad was left, bound and dry.

Beneath the greenest earth lies my silence—words emptied and conversed within my stubborn mind. Foreseeing the foreseeable still made its way, despite my bad luck, and even if I could not reach for the two-way telephone, fearing I’d submerge myself into the deep hole of my grief, I’d still jumble the twenty-six letters and turn them into, “God, I hope he’s safe out there.”

Must I forsake the alphabets, just so you’ll reach out and yearn the same way I do?

Must I shake and tremble within the graveyard of my memories, in labored breaths, while my sorrowful ghost follows you in silence?

The world spoke of its benevolence between the once familiar you, where I found a home. But then, it was nothing—such profoundly ethereal grief that I am intolerably stuck within. Above it all were the dreams and laughter we used to create in the muffled whispers of the night. In a song I am listening to, I would lose myself just to hear it again.

Such hope I have, overcoming the sea in comfort and safety. Such discipline, to not dwell too much on the relinquishment of my deep loss—the once home I found, where on the second floor of nostalgia, I once saw you overlooking the port.

You taught me so much grief. I am now good at writing your name in four letters—beautiful, but futile.

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.

I felt the sting of nightshade bubble up inside me,
Once more, I cough up the bloodied Solanaceae.

Purged into my lap, budding with flesh,
Pallid petals ripe with Persian plum mottle, gored and fresh.

Racking my body in waves of herbaceous excruciation,
Crawling up my throat, clawing in botanical mutilation.

Lain out on the creased stone,
My macabre of a garden is blotted with the watercolour of my own.

Weary from retching, I stare at my withering ***** with distain,
I shrivel internally at the burden of mopping each and every stewed stain.

But I know I must clean the mess I've forged,
Because its nobody apart from me, who impulsively gorged.