The heart of a dragon;
A young girl tames.
Her femme fatale;
Will be the end of him.

click klack click klack click klack click klack
klippity clop klippity clop klippity clop
slap slip slap slip slap slip.
 
hello and welcome to the machine age
where pink floyd your tour guide
where human beings the laughing stock
on the supposed creature comforts
but in truth dependent on those big and little gadgets
designed by the brainchildren of past and present.
 
civilization at the mercy of those trappings
envisioned by wunderkinds
that propelled the masses from labor
yet now shackled to technology
far removed from simple existence of yore
when people used horse power

as their chief form of locomotion in the bustling towns
that inexorably spawned metropolises
that birthed towering skyscrapers
leading to potential fiascos by making civilization incumbent on
factories generating gewgaws in tandem with industrial waste.
 
survival of numerous species
(including that of man/womankind) hangs in the balance
as population explodes beyond
the capacity of planet earth to support
such a burgeoning billions fold burst of **** sapiens
filling every nook and cranny on this third rock from the sun
foisting an inconvenient gory truth
that catastrophe looms ever closer
perching all living organisms ever closer to the brink
of disaster and eventual extinction
unless dramatic measures taken to manage reproduction.

Remember Little Red,
Cloak coiled.
Cocooned, Little Dread.

Confined in space - no room to change - no air to breath.

So Little Dead remains the same,
Caged in cloth she remains tame,
Teeth taste her lips blood, she remembers the taste.

Little Lead-Heart wasn't born with a Dead Heart.

But the Cage, and Age as Time birthed Rage
Created Death, where once Lived Little Red.
If there was a route in this Labyrinth,
Little Red would find the Thread.

past tense verbs with their pesky sense of definity
divinity
those who drink the water say
is the now and
already there
but what was makes me weep
and I can't breathe now
not with my neck craned around-intimately eyeing the ghosts of christmases passed
and oh god, don't make me hear "eventually"
I can't stomach "let it happen"
I've known you in nine lives
I've remembered you in all nine
and in the eleventh hour you've made a pearly bust of your apathy
but your lips are half parted
I drip with desire
but I only ever see you when I follow the hand around the clock