I, the abstemious liver, was sinking
in a cauldren of flesh. Remembering that
rifts in a sea people
are a token to grace as they remain.
They are tithed to the church sculpted of bone
upon mutual sight.
She is dancing in pink
like a cat's tail on the other side.
I, writing my bible in an opium den
of fragrenced and nuanced fire.
A diaboloical circumstance
rife with petty spacial awareness
occluded through a prism.
She is absolved in latin
as I compose scripture to bridge the valley
and forge a new darkness for us.
Note - "liver" in line two is not a misspelling.