Two beings of love incapable, 
Only of blooming old lust,
Beast-like, lost in the dusk’s mauve cape 
- Two minuses turn a plus,
At last, from chasm of cold space inseperable, 
Tween intertwining ivy witches’ arms.
Like stick-figures of winters’ tree crones 
Imprison egg-yolk’s mould untouched by rust,
Entering roads from rags to riches, 
Enroute from cradle to the dust.
They turned their backs on greens of regents’, 
Instead swayed by the royal crux.
Fiends wretched from infernal reaches, 
Souls; old, forsaken - daimons’ caste.
Their names are locks - lock-pick can’t breach these.
Actions speak louder than the words, 
But so do acts of making speeches.
One image is worth thousands of those, 
However, so are your decisions.
It is not even love at first 
Sight’s ghastly phantom of perdition’s,
Warding the doors of Sabbath’s workhouse
- Schrodinger’s Cheshire apparitions
In crimson halls of memory’s walkways, 
Who’ve once sealed fate of ancient battlefields
Twin acts of God, sprout by Art Deco’s norm,
Butterfly’s wings like balisong blades swing, 
Spun by the agile wrists of blade-runners.
Like Clyde and Bonnie, Kain and Able they're
Beings of mutual love incapable,
Voices echo in unison, 
Call of the wild, or phantom pains in spring - 
Consonant heartbeat of their Corazón.

Stone-hearted gargoyles, not themselves are, 
Engraved in captures of the lens, where
The polaroid’s membranes rupture, 
Portraying blot charts of the Rorschach tests.
Resembling Dorian Grey’s portraiture: 
Two perfect halves; like shots and shells,
Like the Americans and shotguns, 
Tobacco’s fumes, and cancer cells.
Roads of Londinium and homeless, 
Like breasts or neural hemispheres.
Both left and right wings, Whigs and Tories, 
Or scales of justice – heads or tails.
Selection’s lens spell predator beasts, 
Under façades of human-friendly veils.
Embodiments of the imposters, 
Like dim lightbulbs of deep-sea depths are.
Concealing glass volcanic boulders, 
Humongous maulers of ceratiidae
Still mid the crowds of witless tourists, 
They’re greeted only by a poker face,
Under the sweaty canine mouth guards. 
Reversed convergence of the twain’s fate.
Withstand the test of time they ought to, 
Both as the shadows of their former self
Part riddling Cerberus’s opposites, 
In part two worthless replicas
Let us not think about the past wars, 
Instead, let’s focus on the present tense.
Six-letter key unlocks the past’s lore 
- Thus, naming eyes of cigarettes
Blazing like crescent of the morning's dawn. 
Over-perplexed by the trigonal square,
Marking a fork in Beleth’s catacombs, 
Can you unravel what their name is hence?