Ephialtes of Black Blood and Red Ink

Ephialtes of Black Blood and Red Ink

A black widow spider purloined a baby cinnabar butterfly's soul 

Fed her with eggs to bloat, hugged her with fickle love and ceased her to fly

She yarned a cobweb of fibs of self pity, hatred and her misery filled childhood

As an excuse for her vanity and pleasure to devour the little joys of the lassie's childhood

The elegant sod seldom allowed the buckeye to make joyful expressions

And erased away the petite fille's passion by dashing red ink of corrections

At twilight, exhausted with her wings trapped in the prickly web strands

The kiddiewink dared to dream of the kaleidoscopic flowers of faraway lands

But imprisoned in the snare built with everyday guilt for no sin

Shed her black blood on every dim gray sleepless night out and in

On every bright sunny day of hope and peace by incessant  prayer

The vermin's eerie dark spell sharply consumed all hues into midnight black of despair

With her long tentacles and sophisticated traps, she strangled till fatality gripped 

But rather, the predator grieved and wept,like she was  the victim 

Her winsome tiny wings were obliterated so that she never existed for anyone

The pupa was tagged as an hideous,stout & black bean,ordered to be grateful for favours already done

The black-hearted queen wanted everyone to kowtow with soul and body

To defy her ever changing commandments,is a call for a curse with liability for eternity

Her garnet jewel box was furnished with crimson hearts that she had dispirited

Benignity was her imperial red mask to earn her throne anywhere she inhabited

It is high time to bang the bell for a warning sonnerie

For it is  her vermilion signature style to seek for every chance to ravage bittersweet shimmer camaraderie

The affligé papillon one day,fled away to heal her broken wings

Flew afar from the reach of the tangled knots of the araignée's stings 

The cinnabar butterfly delicately spread her  black and red wings

For the first time in years,she began to love herself for what she truly is 

She floated over her flowers of shades of every colour 

Yet prominent red and black stains stayed in her blood and wings rather 

A memoir of her survival from a narcissistic ebony black heart.

She witnessed her dreams come true right before her

But the ephialtes in black blood and red ink of bygone days do often haunt her.

Because the black widow has yet again purloined a baby cinnabar butterfly's soul

Isn't it  yet the time that someone bang the bell for a warning sonnerie?