The paper house ignites with an alchemist's bellows. Golden-finned, arched, dying, re-aroused, encircling every human and thimble-sized object.
Love, with the tiniest red torch, branded to your heart — Will you come now?
Blood blooms lie decked on the mounted beams, devouring the scabs of tissue roses. They follow the crumb paths through little halls and rooms no larger than the width of a child's hand: Tablets for worms, baskets for a litter of mice.
Love, with the tiniest red torch, branded to your heart — Will you come now?
Gnats swim in the pool of a toy teacup. Inside the sleeping tents, vapor unwinds the dolls from the dolls' beds. Acid ash snowcloud. Little white sails.
Love, with the tiniest red torch, branded to your heart — Will you come now?