The stains will wash
the blood moon.
I will bring the nightingale.

Show me your sacred
heart. Can it sustain a
knife thrust through the ribs?

You are walking on the
man's skin, spread over-after
the vision, as though you can reach home.

The ravens have a
field day. It is all black around,
with faces buried in sands.

And you sing in praise
of immortal, who gives you
a limited dose of yawns.