“Drafted in B minor”
She looks into you as the camera comes out of frame,
You feel your pulse pounding as the blood bursts in your veins.
He will consume you and take all but your name,
You breathe in the fire as you swallow the pain.
They feed on their energy, the world dancing to their needs,
Drawing a horror spectacle as both beauties start to lead.
They were to marry in a graveyard amidst dandelions and rotting leaves,
Because they wanted to show their lost children life persists beneath dead trees.
Locked in their eye-lines, they’re perfectly strange.
Walking step-in-step, they burn in each other’s brain.
We can see through them, and yes they are same.
But we could not hope to try and understand their game.
Tearing into thee it woke you from the dream,
Destroying piece-by-piece the blueprint of what you need.
Calling for help you’ll fight to salvage the scene,
Trying in vain to re-draw the map from the little you’ve gleaned.
But more than this I wonder is there anyone that still knows,
The tale of the little prince and his dainty, precious rose?
Then again looking back I suppose it’s all just prose,
And in the end that’s how every story goes.