dream (returning hand in hand).

Black feathers as I dreamed,
do not look at me; ebony moon
the lust of the body of the shore,
as nightmares, in what I’ve never
known at all, reflect the Artemis moon;
the fat, yellow moon; it’s a blood-hunt
to the red-hills,
and a sea,
cocktails of sweat
death at the ground.

There is beauty in the death of things
in imminent dreaming,
for it’s like death itself;

white fingers shutting
they shiver
to the cosmic
in between
veteran of psychosis
and leaves among the red
each one among the red
each one red; sands topple,
to astronomic bone
of his stardust.

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First appeared on Free Verse Revolution.