veins of pluto, solidifying plum ichor in my trenches
             sustaining the assemblage of the dark ilk.
                                 emollient lilac, your fetching fragrance clings
     to all the pages in the sanctuary, eternal garden within leather leaves.
          the fingerprints of my slanted handwriting are supposed to tell a story
                                          in its curves, dips, and shanks,
         but that is a memoir that should only be deciphered;
                                          a puzzle of the soul, and the prize is terrible -
                 instead, see the immaculate chaos of dreams become corporeal
        where your name is a word of power
                          imbued with ancestral prowess and the blessings of Them,
                     an opulent palimpsest, each one more intricate and excruciating
         than the last.
                                             and that is what it is like, when I create.