I dream a nightmare
of anti-moon, when
the smile leaves your face
and you become a phosphorescent
butterfly in dark.

A flight of bluebirds
makes a last circle, and
lands on the mound of bones
as a shrine of paranoid of
waist down paresis.

No one was perfect.
No savior will appear.
Anniversaries come and go,
The **** sapiens look back to identify
their progenitors.

Have the mercy. O
god, it was too late to
strike at the womb.