The paisley scope of parallel skies paints rhythms in your head- draws illusions in your bed,
but you can’t see the demise,
built castles from those lies.
The walls won’t break with rattle snakes disguised as gargoyle eyes-
you shake the storm and with hubris you roam,
planting thorns amongst the clover.
But crooked is your foundation.
The light may seem as a thin veil,
but she has many proportions.
The ones you seek, but too shallow to beholden.
Yes, you can knit this amber vest of bullet proof protection,
But light can seep through anything and catch all your deception.
An immolation you will be, despite your contempt.
The light, she has her legion, scattering confetti upon your descent.