I dream a nightmare
of anti-moon, when
the smile leaves your face
and you become a phosphorescent
butterfly in dark.

A flight of bluebirds
makes a last circle, and
lands on the mound of bones
as a shrine of paranoid of
waist down paresis.

No one was perfect.
No savior will appear.
Anniversaries come and go,
The Homo sapiens look back to identify
their progenitors.

Have the mercy. O
god, it was too late to
strike at the womb.