Music of the Spheres

Midnight hangs heavy over honeysuckle
apples droop to the ground, swollen
with possibility – sacral fire
contained in witch-star seeds.

I pluck a burning white blossom,
sink sharp teeth into yellow flesh
taste my Lord – his regret, bitter
flow with him to Lethe, forgotten.

Caryatids crumble under Atlas burdens
Satan shrugs and all Hell tilts askew
held aloft by the repentance of ages
one single question, one soft sigh?

It all breaks.

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