Cairo Sinclair

Your ancient flame of wisdom drew

the moth of alluring youth by the name of Cairo Sinclair

a stroke of luck gifted a mind far greater than the

seventeen years of her temple

Your flame does not burn her

like those who drop their skulls at naivety

but grants her tempting warmth amongst the surrounding blues,

her lack of life endearing in your soul's weary windows

Your mind is not plagued with the regret

of foolish waste, or perhaps regret is buried far

beneath dangerous enchantment and a guilty

preference for structures of smoothness, of tightness

Such an exotic trunk marked with only seventeen rings?

"Nonsense!" you declare, the finest of wine

shall be poured in the finest of glass, for the

finest wine held captive in a plastic prison is utterly insulting

No, such young wisdom shall be dressed in black

and Cairo Sinclair looked best in the raven's feathers

a cigar hanging from plump pillows of perilous velvet

that stains her glass that holds your cherry brandy

Decades worth of blood stained coppers and silvers and golds

gone in exchange for hourglasses of silk pulled from the

heavens during the respite hours of the sun

that is to be worn by your bride of darkness

The palms of morality and longevity are

merged together with the passing of time, are they not?

and yet, your morals are challenged by the youth of Sinclair

with her paleness devoid of texture and mind of obsidian knowledge

"I am not to blame, for I have been bewitched!" you exclaim

Ah, yes, how can I forget the power wielded by developing femininity?

how moronic of me to discard such a truth, how absurd of me

to mistake you for one of those perverse devils that roam the pits of Earth

For Cairo Sinclair is now your little flame of innocence

and you? I am afraid that you are now a moth caught helplessly in the fire

a lobotomized worshiper caught under her spell

"It is not wrong," you say, for you decorate cocoons with the wings of butterflies