What if the sword

leaves and purple eyes

of Iris become apocalyptic?

It would be for me― the arrow,

leaving from the arched

bows of goddess of rainbow.

Wearing a tiara, of

golden lotuses, in eerie morning

the sun was rising.

Dawn commits a

genuine sin. Wakes me up

to dig the past for bones of faithless truth.

The silent ocean has

a job to do. Turn me blue in

iced mercy without any smile.

Baked and browned, the

priest, marries a virgin to a ghost.