velvet drops of virgin blood line 

the daunting aisle for the fresh cut bride— 

clad in nightshade veil and bittersweet gown and

bouquet of dying butterflies, gripped with trembling grace 

as she approaches her impatient doom—

pitch-black dahlia bloom snug against his breast.

his foxgloved hand yanks her onto the altar 

constricts around her wilting arm, in 

crystal view of their finely trimmed guests—

who observe through willow-eyes his

scarlet proclamation of property—

her indigo acceptance of fate. 

when her veil is thrown back the newly 

wedded woman keeps her eyes downcast, to 

the barren ground where seeds can only wither—

as her lust-stung groom digs his thorny 

fingers into her fragile epidermis—and 

sticks his poison-tipped tongue down her throat.