Poetry

Barebones, they come
in droves, to drink blood moon
praying in catacombs.

A summer night sets
over the hills with black eyes. The
cleavers have some jobs to be done.

In perfection, the bodies
should be laid― along with red woods.
The autistic moon will find its lover.

Aborted dawn, the clouds
had covered the womb. The
terrible sun had been roped in.

Earth weeps. There was
no peace.A ghost town rumbles
on. I cannot crack the code.