W-alking through the garden of dead
I - saw things I’ve never seen
L-arge ancient chapel looking dread
L-eaning over where grasses once green
I-n front of its door was a gloomy rosewood
N-eatly inscribed with “THOU SHALL NOT’
G-rudging the entrance in an inimical mood
S-o I turn to the garden where roses spring forth
O-nly to witness empty graves and tombstone -
N-esting runaway-ghost’s broken bones

S-itting inside the chapel’s prayer bench
A-re thousands upon thousands of bookworm - looking wrench
U-nder their tiny glasses and sleeping caps, they
N-oisily serving themselves with bible stories as they prey
G-iggle, wiggle and wriggle they move from verse to verse
A-s their bookworm tails began to gleam into universe
O-f burning candles, saddle up the darken chapel

Arge to fall in love with an artist,
The way we were covered in paint laying on his canvas, and he called me an art,
He was there with all his skin tainted with different colours and the way I fought my strong will to paint him with the shade of my lipstick he found as his favourite,
My chest warmed up at the sound of his laugh,
I rolled over at his side and in a split second I devour him with nothing but my lips.