The same melodrama,
night and night again.
The butterfly trapped in shadow
spins in late cocoon as time wheels on,
a bare chain of what eternity left behind.
The same tears rip seams, pour forth,
Bleeding from the same tired portrait-
dead wings still fly,
dead profiles still walk,
the last of the soul still burns;
Still, her wicked beauty lives ever in fire-
her hand traps all that comes my way.
Once, I was the sole spider;
This glistening story flooded turgid,
Draped in canopies of rain-
Came the sun upon my palace,
struck all but the bottle of her flame.
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