death is a witch with eyes made of ruby mirrors, skin of sapphire junk; death is beautiful for a hype with tissue that lusts for another brand of poison—one that bleeds A, B, or C.
but she is on vacation, permanent if the emeralds shit diamonds from the bloody side of the skin,
and with tracks like rotted coals, war wounds inside and out
the hype will never be cured of the lullabied soliloquies
hymns without the chic-cadaverous love we all strive to adore.