Bloodied moons reap in iris’
through whispering clouds
over the hollow night.
His placid gaze reflects
a ring around the rosy.

My pneuma is wounded as
I am contrast of onyx skies.
Only I am attainable,
with charcoaled center–
brittle to his touch.

Pierced by his wisdom,
such fluid’s vital for the damned
so let it spill and cleanse the hour,
containing dread in a halo
to distinguish sincerity.

This epidemic is withering
for the public to recede or
at least awe full of sympathy.
Nothing lasts, like the
of an eclipse.


About Robyn

"If you haven't known insanity, you haven't lived."
This entry was posted in Other Trivial Pursuits, Recovery (USA) and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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