RIDDLES

Riddles around,

Riddles within.

The mysteries multiply,

Delirium’s delusion.

Reason betrays the season,

When the satyrs have their due.

Debauched hearts pumping gold eagles,

Peacocking about, too heavy to fly.

True beauty is its own horror,

When fragmented into bliss,

the mix of flesh

churns in gleeful orgies,

Till the pendulum swings anew.

Even the tumbling down satisfies,

Broken apart,

upon the last hill,

among the dead satyrs,

All the wine,

 is gone.