Ascent Nicolas Miller
The moon ’ s turned black as was predicted . The deer dance in the woods knowing this to be the end . The purple blooded lilacs bow . The clouds above smoke transepts wheeze . There ’ s laughter on the wind ( a final , mocking word ). The deformed masses at their orgy moan . The ritualists burn the broadcast towers . The hangmen come with shovels and blades for my eyes and nails . I ’ ll dream of the moon ’ s hand around me . Of its satin pull skyward . Of the stars beyond the skyline smiling . Of the murdered earth collapsing . Of the sirens that will greet me when I fall .
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