Her form is shown to me. The percussive piano gives solace with a somber march permeating the cedar room. The reverberations escape through the ghastly house, as the muse covers her bits. The foci of her being remain hidden from me within this house upon the river.

An exotic finish escapes my perverse asylum. Here Michelangelo wallows in his painted world, sculpted from the marble exposed by the yellow fog that descends upon the town.

Under night’s baneful watch the forceful bishop enslaves his tortured talent. His cold calloused hands bleed the eyes of god, always forever present to witness the cardinal’s carnal endeavors upon the tiled floor of the house of the Father.

And upon the eaves a threshing bird knocks itself about. The flapping fish flips away from the floundering, splashing children full grown. Nobody knows the bridge, the drum, the isle-island, sleeping, burning. Thrashing, stirring. And no one bears witness, no one fears the reaper of cloacal obsession.

But the air runs thin, as the volley rains down, darkens the moment. The hollow reigns fading out of thought. Consideration has compromised our fulcrum and our stability is equated to the flapping of ugly moth wings in the wind. Dried and pinned, marketed as the soul of a fairy in butterfly form.

And I wake to her lips upon mine, her thatch upon my breath. Pulls me under, drowns me in water, my soul to find its death.