Moon Flower Dreams
An evening of fire, brimstone and desire;
walking with a torch to the Pulpit of Dark.
Book in hand, followers unite and stand;
preaching torrents by the burning sparks.
Mumbling to the Moon; a diabolical belief;
the devil reaches out to devour the devout.
Breathe into a cauldron, exhale in shadows;
crucible burns long gnarly twisted fingers.
Raise high to your deity; sky or far below.
A dark spirit rises, a tempted Watcher lingers
in an anointed dance of wretched tendencies,
lost within ethereal dreams of moon flowers.
Pity a reddish orb dancing in a velveteen sky;
praise the virtuous ones in their secreted piety.
My skin is ice cold as the clock strikes twelve,
now running away in a mirthless gratification.
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