Dance of the wolves

Dance Nocturne

 

 

August night, is an abyss hotter than the day

and the wind the blows was born in hell.

From open windows in their dark interior

the primal scream of lovemaking,

wriggling bodies trying to produce a child

that like them soon will die, but first, it must

go to through the ritual called love, which is but a primitive

urge to copulate the planting of seed before sinking

underground spent and forgotten in the mass graves

of boredom, decorated with flowers

that radiates death to come.

The Tasmanian tiger howls to the moon and

forever vanishes into an ancient forest, while werewolves

sway to a Mexican dirge.

🌷 (2)

◄ love`s agony

a poem of disappointment ►

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