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Rated: E · Poetry · Dark · #2282112
There is no moon.
Lips consume
hell-fire blooms.
Casting runes
abalone moons.

Devouring cups.
Power erupts.
Burning in lust.
Urns fill with dust.

Each star.
A path.
Too far
and fast.
Hold on
and burn.
Each sting.
Your last;

Till ye at last return...again.

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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2282112-ABALONE-MOONS