Fear Before The March Of Flames

I picked the most appetizing flowers from
these gardens.
I know of virgin thighs.
Anointed in your sweat.
Sat them in a glass.
And took the bench between your hips.
These are beautiful wooden legs you have to
stand on.
Take me lying down.
I played my heart out on your rib cage and
you tried to sing along.
But the keys I chose: sour notes.
And your singing turned to moan.
This is the sound of dying insides.
Everyone was sleeping.
Slaves to a gutted imagination.