in sanguinolent dances we trade
our flowers for knots of the moon,
cracking until the leftover asylum of poetry
turns and explodes in our veins,
Let it be the tongue of rocks, where
serenity will kiss you in due time
and frozen fingers wed in the plow of the womb,
floating, innocent of madness, the moon,
she turns an ewe red in the light,
child-like, vanishing in the delirium
death of glass thorns under the lips of
an abattoir. She will kiss you once, though mourning.
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Written for the dVerse prompt: Using the 3 word combos, all you have to do is choose one of them and write a poem 3 – 12 lines long.