The heavens,
running
from our grasp.
The dripping,
heaving,
wailing lake above,
that bends our eyes
inside-out.
She who paints our skin,
red lips,
decay,
she is stained.
Her ichor
drains
from her fingers, her *******, her hair.
we touched her,
touched
the untouchable.
And now she's
silent,
rotten eggs in her
nose.
Stained,
*****,
dead.