She
breathes tar, to court death, to live it as a trend. Her style
is
gothic, to court it as a scent, taken by many. There’s an
element,
close to death, a rush of adrenaline. Art lives, a
showcase
of darkness, a terrible beauty. To cry perfect, a
lost
language, striving for bloody rivers. Crows follow, to
claw
upon palms, to melt within psyches. Chains are about,
with
bones made of iron, to evoke ashes. Skeletons rise, a voice
long
dead, adorning sculptures. She paints thunder, a nest of
black
doves, a perch of black diamonds. Houses wail, where
ghosts
haunt, a plate of black olives. I love her, to speak of
darkness,
ever to summons omens. Her fingers are tatted, with
stars
and crosses, even bones. She loves hawks, a thirst for
death,
structured to kill. We carve, fully asleep, gnawing at
colors.
It’s more for leather, and knee high boots, with spikes to
dance.
Such for trends, a Harley for breath, setting a freeway
aflame.
She lives tar, a stream of spells, murky to a flame.
