Gather, the does hath drunk too soon –
Blood of spires, scath of bodies;
Scorn is the hue of the Garden’s follies.
Selene, art thou the muse of the Flower Moon?
Bathe thy bodies amongst the waters, and bind thy mares across the tides –
Gyrate man’s sorrows, bind the membrane to roadsides
of matter serendipitous through the hymns of the squatters.
Towards the centre the herd stampedes,
Fine charcoal beaches forsake thy mind:
“Hymns burn the days before the fruit’s rind,
and in oblivion, art Thy rage a ravaging tonic of devil’s mead?
If Thy sinners turn to me, who will turn to skies?
Yahwah, strain the Inferno
for the Second Circle – a salutation in the morrow,
Blesses lust into blossoms off the chin of my lies.”
A mane of lines to an ember’s beau,
thy sought the damned out from Splendor:
Prophecy, rupture slowly; become the state in which thy shall find her –
Revel under pyres through the reaping call of the crow.
Luna, steer the waters to the Earth; flood not the mind but the heart.
Seek the Soul’s salvation, the very crux of the cliffside;
Thy herd hath promised, the crane of stupor mares confide –
Tears confess truths Thy man deem tart.
God seeped her arteries clot-stolen,
For the marriage of the nymphs foretold:
“The themes shall break slowly; the Soul shall grow old!”
In theft, “regress,” bind–surface beauty from the mold.
Past the Fall: cyssan Lilith in thy rye,
Fortune are the inquiries in the Garden’s still-fold stalls;
Flowers sprout in seas, pass in captures of the trawls:
Arrive, Hymn of Eden – remember flesh in Thy sigh.
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