Put off the lantern. I am waiting for the moon’s primal face. The lesser flamingoes were going to shed the pink color. Nude as a python, the kiss of pomegranates, kills by asphyxiation. I suffer in the hands of protests.
A walk in the woods. Thunder in the distance. Lighting dancing, edging dark clouds. Soft rain thru the pines. Boughs dripping in the pond. Birds sounding bird talk. Many languages to be heard. Frogs in the pond announcing their attendance.
It was night sin of domesticity. Dyed, I am loading the white secret of pain in the hollow of a mayhem. Till every blunder takes a downward flight striping the outsized image of a kill. His flames are now singeing