soliloquies that slipped over the smooth marble surface
of an antiquated dream, sprinkled with edible gold
and promises scrawled on parchment addressed to God
were never enough to exhume the molten gargoyle from my core
crimson, corrosive wings fusing our fingertips
so that now we stand on spectral shores, bound forever but shackled
to the sound of the ocean within a shell.
the elegant curve of his neck now cradles the cobalt fetus of passion
and her downy ringlets have been turned over to the hangman
yet still they prefer the shivering disorientation of this catacomb
to the symmetry of lips that touch and loins that meet
for she enjoys the pursuit of his porcelain face highlighted with icy orbs
and he adores the heartbreaking concept of the artist and his distant muse,
in a sense, it is romance confined to dusty novel pages,
and so they recline in starry arms and gaze at reflections rather than actuality;

thus Black Beauty is free to gallop into the infinite permutations of the universe.