Garden of Chilies

madhouse of a ménage à trois — the bawdy chamber of the blitz, where three depraved darlings conspired in pagan rituals, their lover's lament a discordant dirge amidst, detritus of a bygone era, a winter's eve of wreathed blossoms and withered dreams, in this sterile hothouse of sentiments, tender shoots of succulents twisted in grotesque abandon, vault where love and decay convened in diseased romance, till the one dawn ecstasy rose like cold air, and winter's chill singed the hard prickles of their passion, now vacant bloom, fossil of wounds, trailing anguished bellflowers in mournful amusement.