May 2020
It comes nearer
and nearer every night,
the face, like fog.
A cult of moon
spills the milk on the pink lips.
Salt and the honey.
Before fated
kiss of death, you pluck,
roses from eyes.
and nearer every night,
the face, like fog.
A cult of moon
spills the milk on the pink lips.
Salt and the honey.
Before fated
kiss of death, you pluck,
roses from eyes.
