Demise Of Erato

Demise Of Erato

Erato grows callous and cold, her wanton ways at last beginning to take their toll, and she feels her sweet and poisonous flesh grow heavy and languorous as she takes another corrupted innocent draped in lustful poppies and virginal dreams of roses not yet bloomed.
In her embrace hallucinations blossom, their petals growing beautiful and bitter in the sickly luxury of silken pillows lined with sighs and feverish swollen hands.
She lies on her sweat-stained sheets, her putrid lips engorged with the tender kisses of another night spend in the clinging arms of a shadow soaked in cheap wine and ink and opium, while she clings to her bedposts in pain as the thorns of her own bittersweet rose dig deeper into her thighs.
Her lovers come and go, dissembling and cold, their only heat the blood they spill into the sinister embrace of ragged and destitute syringes that torment their veins with longing.
There is a corpse that lies, open wounds still beating, bleeding over the asphalt where she lies. She was a whore, cheap and threadbare her lipstick only adorning the collars of ragged and coarse roistering fools with a little cash to spare. Still she lies beaten and bleeding, a poet walks past her mangled body, and in her bruised and haggard face, the poet sees the lover from long ago
The intoxicating rose-tinted goddess of fever dreams
Erato