You-Phoria

In crystal Flesh, as the Kiss of a Dove, Eons pass, time and time again.


In a Halo of Words, and a Room of a thousand Arts, in the Shadow of Your Black Wings, onwards into Battle.


Breeding the Evil inside, as Blood-Thorns of Spite, arising, its End, always Offensive.


Seasons of Mists, engulf the Aquarium of Children, fixing such, unto the Black Vagabond of the two-headed Black Swan.

The Marbled teeth of My dreams, stained...