Your blood in the water is the fount of life
for the stars that spark my ever expanding curiosity
for the golden plains of the immortal life.
Dracula is but a weak reflection in the mirror
of the desire that burns inside, like lost diamond in coal,
for the spring found in the gardens of the fairies.
The explosive budding of Echo’s heart upon a long forsaken return
of promised love in excess (with the power of atomic consummation),
is but a willow’s soft whisper to the overture of my Pinocchio miracle.
My mind, found weighed down with shallow dwarven knowledge,
brings only what filthy treasures it has found in humble salute
to the blood infused sea that trumpets your great victory.