Morose insomnia 
jealous of the Sun's light 
where shall I place you? 

To sharpen the memorial 
amongst the stars that I have prayed for 
poised to heat up the pressure. 

My left lung, 
my haunted cabinet, 
my neonate rum between the ego 
the old sleep that I miss much 
has ritualized of an unchaste election. 

Oh, to capture of her portrait of swarthy blood 
and the fallen tears of an outcry's titillation. 
What a wrathful rebellion 
against that tide of her ministry 
such an ireful descendant 
rises the candle of a white smog's posterity 
it's an unread revelation. 

I could foresee the pale visage of a Black Widow's reek in tumult. 
She had appeared before the window 
of the chamber's right side without remorse. 
She had no pill for a hero. 
Her screech had been like a collision or worse 
of an infinite cusp 
to hide through an enfeebled touch 
of a thousand howls crowned in a supermoon's flask. 

Nightfall had brought a final mirror 
whose broken name had been pronounced through the mass 
indubitably oxidize a darker witch's hour. 
The old folktale was born to feed the lion's wrath.