It's a struggle
To exist
With only
Half
A soul

~
Floating in a nacre, cream pool
Splattered with ink, dreams, and azoic butterflies
A monolithic love dance begin
Shifting one personality into another

Creating
Defaulting

As three stone bodies

Swirl
and twirl
With a rocky rhythm

Their papery skin
Peel back in finery consumptions
As their minds become one
~

Ink wounds sketched on her wrist
Prophetess unfurled her diamond proboscis
Hungrily ******* the pollen muse from the lyrist flower
She bounces her piety on the edge of her eyelids

Her azoic eyes flashing
Like a chrome apochromatic
Phonetic voice spinning a tune
Stylus fingertips dancing on a spinel canvas
Outlined on her metal stomach

Though eccentric
She is sterilized with intelligence
Tilting diagonally on insanities thin line
She is straitlaced
Self absorbed
Cryogenic

With upside down crosses imprinted on her throat
While her proselytes unthread dreams
From her coliseum heart
Bowing down to the collage God
Sacrificing sacrifices

“Pull more, pull more!”
Proselytes cried
Sunbeams painting their ash faces
As they pulled more dreams
From between the Prophetess lashes

Her hips becoming a petal chakra
Her vertebrae evaporating into bone butterflies
Fragments of every churchy elements
Pinning themselves to her skin

Her leather wings flapping a nursery rhyme
She spins out of control
Her musical clavicles creating a glassy chemical

Which shimmer and shake
Tattooing her pearl bones
Infusing her thoughts

She grafts herself on the minds
Of her Proselytes

They worshipped her life
They worshipped her body
They fed on her lies

Until one day

Error religion snatched her out her skin
Turned her into sacral fiber
Planted her whispers deep in a field of shredded dreams
And stretched her moon soul
Across the sun stained sky

For all to see
Her star spangled faith
Misshapen into unbelief

She had become her own religion
Her own personal god
But without any meaning