Crimson skies pour lead Easter eggs
from fuscous clouds,
Mists and fogs fight for whom will bring humanity under its shrouds…
The good departed soul
awakes sinful from slumber at night,
Watching and
peeking as dryads waltz burlesque in
freight:
Tyrant and putrid housewives open the cryptic windows
Trying to
find their one ring shackled husbands…
and then to remain widows…
Ashy feet take walks of long and firm steps
upon the chaotic sands,
Tired of
their forsaken place in order to find new uncharted lands;
In shadows of suns and pierced by
moons they rot and decay,
Grasping upon dark wings of ravens
the immortal canvas of gray,
The angels of tantalizing fleshes,
the addiction they flay –
The beer-maddened muses and nymphs which by tainted quill the good soul
shall slay!
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