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 