Buried at sea
the dead man lives, as if a blood
in a reliquary.

Remains of a day
were very volatile.The backlash
will start with a kiss of moon.

By the lack of a sin
you meet an ambush
lying in wait.

The severed hand will
hold the sunrise.
Who will write the epitaph?

A stunning breast, over your
reflection, the red rains
come for celebration.