On the skeleton of our need,

why the horror of the leaving?

The folding up the white narcissus,

darker blue, the moon is white, the night an even hue.

Theses sounds of bones cracking back,

the moans out of the night, crying, bitten.

I wonder what shapes they’ll force,

what tentacles they’ll grow?

Pride swallowed,

in the rich galled turnings of my throat.

Possess them in child magic,

through all their dreary spread.

While he himself,

edged into the terrible acute hatred.

He came to death,

with his mind drowning.

The blood screaming,

in the empty reservoir of bones.

Can they eat off his skeleton of pain,

and die in the Ether Peripheries?

Now petal after petal,

turns brown.

Moves away in careless death,

walking on long knives.

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