Tincture

My lung was dropped beneath a lonely window near lavender meadows, and the twin was scattered on the busy streets of Atlantis.
She stretched her arms towards my neck,
This inhumane nymph of the crest.
Our last resort is Kilimanjaro with dried up rocks, and rusty snow.

(Collecting old daggers from the grandiose folks to stabilise my rhinestones).

Drink up soil's cigarette blood, and the ethereal moondust.
Spark off your bats, and your tincture filled nails to the edge of the falls.
Bury the poison stained daffodil away from your dead and loaded:
Satirical wings.

(The ravens are all sighing in the arms of summer).