Kelli,
I wrote a poem. It’s kind of operatic, but what can you do? Next time it’ll be sleek and angular.
“Cold Fusion”
In the queen’s gilded palace of din, mean reds louder than bombs. I’m bled. 15-2.
In the queens pleasure garden, warheads race, worlds fall riot. Our hearts are open graves. 15-2.
Siren’s wake is blue. Aeon’s lost inside of you. 15-2.
15-2. Clear. Pulse. Try again.
15-2. Clear. Pulse. Save your violins.
15-2. Clear. Pulse. Save your money, title, fame and friends.
Boom. Boom. An E.R. party forever-now, dawn-night. An army on the dance floor looking for new glow. I cross dark acres. Then forever-now eyes strike Pretty-As-Drugs.
Boom. Boom. Black and blue heart struggles to keep time, but bones pulse jack-boot melody drunk on dark sublime. Blood makes noise louder than bombs.
Cold fusion turns ghosts in me to flesh, then fountains of flame. From ashes we rise shooting stars over Elysian fields.
(In America emergency medical cases go to the E.R.)
Well gotta go, again.
Caio.
P.S. I was inspired Roadrunner037’s poem and owe half the music industry credit for the phrases I used.