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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