beauty runs without the
wolf maw of her dark will

where the
moon rests in her pale
mantle of minutes

meanwhile,
the upwelling of the
sea continues with

her
infinite stygian mouths
scooping up the last of
the moonbeams,
famished

we are in the heart of
a namelessness

– the words gather an old fire
undressed in the dark old hills,

strung out, empty of amber
flame and frost spirits,
going underground
for the long black sleep

that the murder shudders
you -smakka–bagms (Tumblr)

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