Battle of Moon

The blood orange
moon signals
the harvest.

Words
have rendered you
In smithereens.

I stole the tide,
but hate me not,
for once I was you,
and to me now
and since trajectory
you have adapted
to my cunning.

That is the only
explanation
for why you live.

Now!
Pray to the moon.
Bow before me.

Magnanimous
in victories
I am not.

That is the only
impasse
to your relief.

Now!
Take the knife
of the moon crest
locust,

Take this steel
and pierce the ghord.

Now!
Spoil this milk
in the carpenter’s name.

Relieve him of his
honey.

Now!

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