The Basilisk and the Owl (holy damn, i NEED to stop using nature for metaphorical inspiration. fuck that, i need more edginess and insanity! more contemporary shit, to spice it up.)

A basilisk rests upon the thorns
A nuisance, above all else
Howling shrilly at the moon
A facade of a coyote 
Limpid eyes in limp, then electrified mind 
Frost fades into sequins
Glimmering, rising, like the bleak horizon
Colorless and bland, a mystical drought
One eye, a slit executes emotions 
Owl drifting below like a buoy in the vast ocean
Concerns itself with grains for winter
Sleek blankets undulate
Burning clean the trees
I let out a cry only strained ears can discern 
The bird floats in the stillness, pitter-pattering soundlessly
Sealed shut like saran wrap violently tugging at every end around a lucent box
It treads lightly, averting the ground's splattering dewdrops and crackling crispness
The basilisk weeps at the moon from the treetops
Scorching in the rising heat, like a bonfire ceaselessly lit
Matches tossed in one after another, like logs emerged from a lake
It conceals its scales, the owl would yelp
An indignant blend of shame and pride 
The owl peers up with a solitary eyeball
A priggish pebble of the pond 
Wedged beneath the rest of the colorful brood
Gazes blankly at the scales, flits its eyes from head to tail
Heavy head flops to one side, like a flogging forcing weight 
Discontent and disappointment drip from every orifice 
The owl grunts none too meekly, a disgruntled being of Mother
Aches from every feather
Nearly imploding as churned butter sputters like saliva in the center of a circular wad of smooth wood
As unvoiced as death
Of crimson flesh
Salty, damp metal droppings, dripping like pools of icicles
Its eyelids droop down like curtains
Then shoot skyward, blinds bounding
It flutters like flipping flapjacks
The recoiling, non-threatening entity does not feel human