False Distinction.

White flower on the wrist
Pale on a landscape of ebony
Wavers down the arm
When the ink spills
Like blood from the thorns
(Marching down the path)
Carried on the litter
Curtained up
On a vagous path
Our only light
A hand-made twilight
Cut out by perverts
& deviants
Watching us:
Cullied
By chance of redemption:
"Onward to the throne!"
One last dance
One last party
Until we meet our ends
At the altar
Before our replacements
New yet remembered
Memories
Not distinguished
Corrupting ever breath
Before we kiss
& feel the knife
We talked of emerald fields
We talked of ghosts on the marsh
We never saw
We never thought.