Built This Tomb Together, I Will Fill It Alone - Experimental

I wrote this one on my iPhone. All things considered, I think it turned out quite well if I do say so myself - and I do.

A surrealist’s painting pitches forward, into the throes of obsession’s love, with open waters, as a seagull steals a young girl’s paintbrush. In her mind’s turned-blind-eye, she feels time’s water’s frantically green rush.

At the line’s end, when all passengers have had their stops, she’ll bite Mister Vampire Boyfriend
and give ‘erself a great, big rush; she’ll never find it again, that old paintbrush.
They wholly damn the G’thmaily, Felicur, or the Etero to this story of hers, this girl’s, which was somehow a different sin;
but, being me, sometimes They decree, sometimes They see, now, lately, that would ne’er change a third…
...of Their catastrophes and calamities that make her indifferent unto the artist’s rococo, baroque-n world.

In her paints, her film, are innumerable veils of which Mr. Irony, Surrealistic cannot un-see,
at the behest and behalf of the angels of War’s very own Death, their mind-festering Tree;
as his arcana-blessed eyeballs whiz, those God-knowing, see-nothing pupils of his,
spin a time immemorial yarn from when snakes wore vests…
and spoke their best… of a tragedy of yore,
of an Old Folk’s tale’s everyman so as to sarcastically venerate, to defile the set treatises of lore.

Because all starts and stops are honestly �" and quite truly �" martyr-bent, self-immolated winds,
They are where it all will start…, where it all will end.
And, when it’s all said and nearly through, that stained brush of hers, the acting minister to-go,
he’ll be lead puppet in that grotesque and burlesque, sinister show:
Sinestro: Ballet de Negro, the Dance Moon-Fright, sorrow’s Purgatorial Arcadia, the one and only, the Black Ball.
When the instruments of creativity’s past beckons, destined to go, it’ll heed Their howling, spectrally-sniveling call,
for ‘that’ solitary and inscrutable entity can’t, yet, could, also, breach the rear window’s glass ‘pain’ They had installed.

With oil in Their cloud-tubed, sky-rimmed ocean, and, with two fish in the sand, toad number one, lose the stand.

The entity, he, it, she, is the one I mentioned previously, his, its, her mission is noble, a simple one at that: To eat the atmosphere of all those who end up �" or just end �" here by the rise of a hat.