there's a gypsy moon being a whore on the front lawn, a tease gyrating her body all over the sidewalk where chalk marks trace the corpses of her victims as yellow tape surround the crime scene. somehow, she got lost being twenty-one forever, dancing like a vintage black dahlia- a lone bullet playing russian roulette and shooting papyrus stars.
her lips were stained with roses as she hugs her knees, her ebony gown embracing her curves while ignoring the discord of cataclysmic noise that almost sounds like a melody more heart-breaking than the ocean spilling from her garnet eyes.
there's something wicked lovely with the way she sings your name through the night like an acoustic lullaby as the clouds play with her silhouette like broken guitar strings.
she's a daydream in black but she buries her memories of the fall in between mid-whispers and fluttering shouts. she's a wild thang that can suck your soul spinning in gossamer and quivering in silk and as she frolics with the waves of your andorra juniper eyes, she holds you under her spell.
too bad it's all just a reverie- an enchantment that can blind you at midnight without ever longing for the daylight so you can only glimpse her at the afterglow and make you scream, "let me drown in your nocturnal serenade, my love."