Red roses through and through,

How they lace themselves within my veins.

Tell me, what gives them their colour?

Each thorn seeps deeper into my skin,

And I sigh in ecstasy.

For a moment, the divinity in me speaks volumes-

Like a pestering spirit when the wind falls silent,

It haunts my unconscious, grasping wildly at my throat.

Psychological strangulation, at best:

“Nunc scio quit sit amor.”

And so, I collapse to the cold earth,

My lungs heavy as my heart,

For the thorns sink deeper still-

They grow upon the branches of life.

I call upon thee:

Mine Salome,

Mine queen of emeralds,

Beauty lost in mania.

How vicious thou art,

Yet mine eyes deceive me.

Where is thy platter?

Where shall I lay my weary head?

See how I convulse at every touch-

Lips bitter as all those years ago,

When thou didst flung me aside.

Thou still wearest that cherry-red lipstick, do thou not?

There thou liest, upon velvet,

A canopy bed inviting all,

As if a temple of thy grace.

Rather vain, dost thou not think?

Yet offerings must be made,

Sacrifices wrought.

What more have I to give?

Is not the beating of mine heart enough?

It hath ached for thee for centuries,

And still thou feasted,

Yet what a pig it hath made thee,

For my heart was never forged for one like thee.

Winters pass, and so does thy temple wither,

As my own body withers,

I cough up dirt; my esophagus fills-

See how I choke on mine own righteousness.

It infects me, yet I care not:

I shall burn thy godforsaken palace,

Even as Solomon’s temple burned.

An array of sensations-

Smoke and fire-

That is what I need.

And thou shalt beg at my feet,

As thou didst make others do.

Is this not the irony of the universe?

Red roses through and through,

How they lace themselves within my veins.

Tell me, what gives them their colour?