The crescent scythe cuts a path
across the belly of the sky,
the scars of dead stars on its pockmarked surface.
The heavens bleed moonlight onto my upturned face.
I breathe the opium moonlight
running with the wolves who nip at the heels of my voices.
Escape the giggles like powdered glass in canapes,
spun sugur smiles wrapped around razor wire tongues.
The signal flare of dawn seeks out the darkness of my eyes
time to don the robe of sanity
and participate in the blasphemous rituals of reality:
the bright delusions of my nightmare begin anew.