Is it lunacy — this slow decay of night?
As nightshade whispers and how moths
commit its suicide when flying close to light…
A laughter fills my abdomen with rot
and moon spill silver on restraining belts.
It’s claws. It’s jaws as shadows hunt on sky.
Is it lunacy — this night when reasons melt?
As nightshade whispers how it’s time to die.
February 18, 2017