by: Spencer DiSparti
A Hunter’s moon runs cold with blood,
Dripping like a severed heart.
I stare into its crimson face
Praying to find the crown
Of my humanity once again.
The fleeting wings of Time,
Never calm my restive soul.
Must I be enslaved to this wretched life
A ghost that can never see the sun rise?
I covet their inevitable demise,
Burying my fangs into their supple flesh.