Isn’t It Pretty

to think

in viole(n)t lining?

Magenta melting into fuchsia formations;

seeping onto sun-kissed stars

and blood-drenched roses

falling from cotton candy clouds-

periwinkle puffs airbrushed in blush.

Isn’t it pretty to watch,

as white snakes bore into your skin

while you sink into the floor?

Your vandalized veins erupt,

scatter across chipped, beige walls.

The cracked ceiling gives in,

crashing onto scraped, wooden floors.

Faltered fragmentations of plaster

dispersed among a maroon rug.

A closed casket consumes your carcass:

red velvet dripping ichor

onto your empty epidermis.