The off shooting noise around
That worn out hullabaloo mournfully faded.
The frozen maggots of that still born December night,
Though occasionally feed on our frozen inhuman hearts.
Each winter afterwards carries the darting hail
Of her still grieving misty loins.
Her grave is still without an epitaph.
Once she played with, the spring and the summer
And wore the promise of tomorrow on her sleeves,
Her lissome limbs, leaving shadows of the sunshine..
walked gleefully in the gusts of November wind.
Seven winters have gone by,
And she lays down mutilated
in the repugnant nether world of pagans.
She still picks up an axe and opens her wounds,
As another candle march bemoans
Another hibiscus charred bones.
She lets the white blood drip some more
on the frosty dissolute misogyny.
Gravity doesn’t even bother now
to bury the curse of her gender.
At the gallows of an ashamed humanity,
Will there be a closure..
Will she sleep… ever!
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