Sunday, December 25, 2016

The Book of the Watchers

Every angel ever invented
Fell to ground wanton and whispered
Into the mind of a maiden
Or many he was her intended.

Sex and apocalypse are dancers
Pulsing thoughts never untangle.
Here let me help you. Your tango
Serves the needs of inhuman pranksters

Who want you to forget that your flesh
Is rope with which they mend their nets,
Replenishing weirs with fresh souls.
Forlorn, unto lust reason is born.

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