Black Moon

Look at your hands,

How they run,

Grandeur in all their porcelain comparison.

Do they reap the fruits,

of the maidens who've sewn,

leaves of pit into the ground?

Do they hold my head steady,

When you severe the throat

From the opening of white

Light?

The lilies in the forest,

Why do they grow?

Crooked, in the damp freeze.

All the planets

With there cool breeze,

Frozen over the black cloud.

Over there,

How they run from you,

Little claws stomach,

Sea shells, spiraling,

On the silver blade of

Blue.

Oh, the black moon.