The moon is lathered in a milky sheet
A duvet of languid longing
And although my mind is not discrete
It cuts atmosphere dawning
With ambience only found in those who loved
and those who have perished from it
To persevere past the pyres of sanguine allure
is to cultivate the spirit of future past
A time corrupted through vices, internal unknown
Like an ashtray of device, it lays to you unbeknownst
A tool of destruction, Shiva's scythe
A bouquet of olive branches, a path to Christ
Follow it blindly through the forest of harpies
And emerge a new soul, doused in shards of grief
But cut from the glass your mind refracts
Your body remains
But your soul is complete.