Oblivion.

Of morning mist and stormy night,
The holy smoke beckons.
Of Satanic verses and gothic plight,
The faceless wrathchild reckons.
The viscous red hath made it's way,
Through murmuring streams and sunlight hay.
Would you, not, savour a drop to drink,
Of slaughtered komodo and roasted mink?
An exuberant void of passionate perfection,
Boons on the wings of poesy.
With sweltering racoons and demonic resurrection,
Flustered bouts of frozen fantasy.