Old Love Letter

I am the illusionist, the fantasist, the scientist,

The archaeologist turning your soul pieces into gold

Pulling you together but you’re not so much a riddle

As a conquest, you are the great emerald city,

My lavish Dionysian vision, and I will drip the large

Roasted honeycomb amber rings on your fingers,

Trace the silver linings from around your mouth

And make you an emperor, if only for a time

The villain, the brazen, the unfocused and out of view,

I will dance the seven veils and leave you breathless

Glorious in my impropriety, basking under the black wing of my sin

This mind is a cellar smoking with dreams that cannot break bonds

Colored wisps twisting beyond the door, poisoning the indulger

And raising the terrible fury that rests inside.



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