returning to sainthood on solitary sunday

presently, the narrative is
in fertile fields
and these words are
almost like a noon moon
out of place
and barley visible

left for dead among the living
i’m up early and it’s cold
the coffee is unprepared
and the day is spelled long

bed sheets torn and exposed
read like rivers
red with blood
and theres oil in my curly hair

thought processes
are warped at this hour
none of this makes sense
yet, everything’s alright

bad heroes
of subtle teeth and bone
seek smoke and the raven
as they wake
with naked emotions craven

armored doctors
treat feral women
caught in the glow of
a yellow-white night
black magic packs
written in dusty tomes
are simply
half truths exposed

the dreams left me before morning
like a reluctant lover
has it been a year
or two
i’m trying to get back to
an endless summer hue
sometimes i get confused
and the long night
holds me tightly

father of wine and creation
seeking a bottomless abomination
ended in recalculation
of a half hearted

inevitable intercourse
as the pagan goddess
has come to take me away

wrapped in her secret embrace
i’m at home in black eyes
that no longer despise
tales of morbid fascination

mistress blue
blessed and dressed
for adulation

bleed upon this empty alter
and falter
no more

it was dark when i started writing this
now, my cat looks up at me
with baiting eyes
and the sun, like all beasts
has risen



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