Your hair red like streaks found on certain seashells
Like the veins around my erratic heart
Corrals me
A pitcher plant to the play of prey
Drawn in, though not drunk
Just drowning
Dancing my slow struggle
Prolonging the inevitable
With every twist and turn
For I have seen it all before and I am well inoculated
Immune from the intoxicating smell of intense colours
The comforting pressure of ever tightening tendrils
The bitter taste of sweet sin
This tomb holds no surprises for me
Just a trap door behind mirrors
From which as you take your applause
I will emerge reborn
Again
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