Confusion (VII)

The night is here. The dreaming stars appear;

The moon is dyed a shade of grainy red.

And what is that, across the seas, I hear?

The wind wraps veils around the flowerbed

—A rustling touch ever approaching near,

And in a blink, the sun shines high in its stead—

The moon eclipsed; beneath this light’s veneer

Lives death and darkness, and the stars that bled.

The night is here. And it is bright as day:

The dying stars, these martyred points of light

In hot orgasms’ fires washing white

This grotesque tapestry woven from skies.

Such sights are now imprinted on my eyes—

My sun has died; my nights are filled with grey.

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