butterflies die As easy As wood

Deck the halls in silent whispers,
in patch work elegance,
Fore the pinnacle in passion arrives
and floats like concrete.
Her serrated tongue -
a blessing born of ghosts unto this accident.
Wile, to blemish the gloss of our comfortable life,
Our dancing curses,
and an untangible affection towards 'kicking and screaming'.
She peels back the torn flesh to reveal their reflection,
yet the scribes denounce, denounce the frail blind harpies.
Ravishing are they,
of whom she tears the harp from,
while helpless bards tune ticking hearts to standard...
An eternal struggle of promised,
defaced repetition.
And though she thrashes for the atrocities to materialize,
for the summonings to attribute a dynasty to her spilling love,
They craft quills from the purest of unborn innocence
- Drain ink from valves - arteries raped modestly.
Etching soft horrors of an exposed callous,
in ones fanatical birth of ambition;
Parchment drowned in the script of the remains of grace;
an abbreviation of the shimmering moon
- glorious, as the rose bud beckons her fragrance.
Beguiled by the guise of a thief's beliefs,
we pale and stretch skin over shattered bones.