In a copse her body rises
Four-cornered and atavistic.
An infection menaced
With sprigs of pastel moonlight
And lust-less oversights.
–
Behind a nebulous door,
A figure pared to shadow
Extends a bony exhale.
What a fine costume
Death conceives when
On loneliness he preys.
–
The God’s write themselves
With cranberry and ichor
Into the portraits of mortals
But who is inclined to believe
In what they cannot see
When what stands before them
Reaps little more than a twitch.
mindlovemisery 
You know I always say I love every line–but it’s fun to choose a fave: “sprigs of pastel moonlight” is so ethereal, magical, marvelous.
Thanks so much XD
Most welcome.
“The gods write themselves with cranberry and ichor.” I love that.
Thanks XD
I like the idea of a divinity in us in the sense of “we are more than ourselves” in the best possible way. That even if we die, there is more of us than just our time here.
Thanks so much!
“sprigs of pastel moonlight” – I love that!