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2019-07-12 21:20:50 (UTC)

Wren in the Moonlight

Have you ever seen blood in the moonlight? It appears entirely black.

The night reflects fear in a child’s eyes.

A bubbling distortion

Fear is the price of our instrument.

The brain does terrific things.

We help ourselves to bear it.

Grasping eternity in our hands

The little wren caged for its lifetime.

Whilst an Ant is reborn in the afterbirth.

Fear is not what I owe you.

It’s the demon, all of my own

Like a giant that stands on the thorns

From a rose that bleeds each petal

Poison seeps

Fools speak

Until it’s healed itself

On the outside at least

It’s shaping, is not too ugly.

Behold the collection of scars

As it sways through the motions

Forever it never forgets.

Which scars, who gave the best of them

The giant stands upon its thorns.

The rose beguiled and grateful.

The power of the scars reveals

The past was real and shaped it.

Half measures of the curse of it

Neither savage nor wise

And life goes on but still, we live.

In primitive times.