the parisian green fairies of paris,
came riding on the great star of inception.
sliding down the rabbit hole like alice,
take a bitter breath and feel a connection.
the scarabs’ cycle a living transforming amulet,
once i wore upon my wrist, that little golden bracelet,
and wrote an ominous toast to screwtape,
who sent me to the deepest secret dungeon.
there, in the dark oubliette, i almost forgot,
the white light that pierced through the top.
luxurious fine furnishing and sweet delicacies,
held hold upon my wits, as if in a fine reliquary.
carved all of wormwood, rich, warm, and dark.
we slept all day, until the owl awoke to the last lark.
we danced like tiny midsummer fairies,
on an ever changing fine china tablescape,
as every new evening they set for a grand revelry.
the scarabs joined me as we tasted the landscape.
tonight, upon a brocade tablecloth, the still life came alive.
under a vase of lilacs in eggshells, we drank tea of ceylon.
strong voices echoed and giant hands brought vintage red wine.
secretly we shared the bounty partaking of scrumptious chateaubriand.
the scarab on the right of me blew the breath of life.
in a dreamlike adventure, i saw my past and lived it right.
the scarab on the left of me blew the breath of death.
a lucid recurring nightmare, where the meaning of the scarab crept.
concealed behind the curtain, danced the jester and her court does yield.
the becoming became, we met again in reflection, at the park of elysium fields.
