lost souls with poetic justice painted on their eyelids
but satan's cry tattooed on their cartilage
always roaming in flames and raw nicotine
find shelter in their own divina conmedia
come, let Dante take us to his nine glossier temples
where saints drink lover's red champagne in pools of innocent posion
heresy makes a vitreous scab against sciamachy prophecies
externally bleeding into the cracks of Plutus' bondage and hoarded possessions aware that their equilibrium exists somewhere between their gluttonous wallow in vile and a pigment tainted in ivory
love laced in angelic wildflowers led them to one death in the depths of Hell
who's figments that stray their focus on reality out of sight
they crave not only their own sinned flesh but the blood and bone marrow of city corruption
as their devout flesh burns against the hymns of the cerise desert
