blue dahlia

Two voids.

Two compositions.

To palms.

Two shadows.

Two against the light, but they aren't her.

They aren't the mysterious blue Dahlia, who's always approaching and never arriving.

But these, them, they.

the touchable, the malleable, the moldable.

The pair of them, the paradigm, they still around you.

Dark images.

Dark senses.

Dark sensualities.

Mysterious.

Foreboding.

Unknowing.

dark shapes of all that arouse and tantalizes and fascinates.

and Prometheus, you, me, us.

to bring her fire and light.

The seed and vitality is punished for his crimes, cast out of the realm of the gods

and forced to grovel among the mortals.

groveling among the moor.

Tales.

clawing, scratching, groveling.

So it ends, with Prometheus's dick coming out of the darkness and into the light.

Unloading on two angelic and anticipating girls' faces.

and they partake of his vitality.

His creativity.

His seed.

His spirit.

Like a sacrament.

A holy ritual.

Ceremonious.

And then he sees her.

The elusive one.

The war.

Sister, lover, the girl feed.

But just for a moment and then she's gone I

Can't remember. She's someone I once met

And forgot about except in my dreams

...