Mystyque, lost in your clutches, beckoning to me, the longing, the everlasting
made lightly of your touch, and smirked it off,
but always found myself back at the foot of the piano, laying it out, far out the dress, the long dress, of mystyque, lay of me, layer of layers, clawing at the absence of time, your jaw dropping exposure, endure, ensure the masses that there isn’t a scene here anymore
butterly love lasting sadness, jiving mystery, beauty, your rival, shock her in the eye, shuck the corns from her toes, a mildew the droplets and form the new ring, sounding the array of fixtures, fingerling crossings, in the middle of a field attempting to shoot a scene, not going as planned, never to be what is expceted, or perhaps never better, a clamor, a vicious madness a stamour, mystyque, your forces know where we all must go, to bold to shy away when the opportunity emerges, as a ballet, as a wedding rehearsal, know your place, your gallant white sondress, your dawning, singing random tunes,
drawn into the dampening doom, drugged out and done, doing what needs to be done, fickle and free with the time, you surely know the direction, you see the deed, which rhyme? your wellspring, your sinking fixture at the top of the ceiling, dripping off the balcony and onto onlookers, where they keep their deepest lockets, locked up in secrecy, breath in my direction!
