As the old man hunches over at his desk
And cries escape, whist aging solid beams
Crumble under his stone body.
Inhale (slowly) now,
As Felis Catus claws scratch at young child skin
And fragile wings whimper at the stroke of his silver scythe.
Preparing now, for its jellied membrane to face his instrument of
As tweezers pull apart the delicate strings of her laced corset body
As the white blood pours crumpled little stars onto the brick brown desk
And the tangled mesh of rainbow pattern deflates in seconds.
Exploding in unison, with the wilted candle flame,
Burnt out by the dancing wind.
Its neon tinted ashes-
Remnants of those clipped fairy wing-ed bones,
Which were not blown in an instant
But rather tortured in his dusty chamber.
Stretched to a plasticine consistency-
With little, gentle stabs, pricked, daggered into the center of
Her heart core.
Stare through his metallic frames, to pierce the depths of his enjoyment
Watch his blubbering black beads of ecstatic eyes
Carefully observe his pulsing, pea-sized pupils
As they enter the thrill of it all.
Simply aroused by its (silent) suffering and
the beauty of its
As it rests now (finally) in the glass coffin.