Our life is a hot-coal cabin sketch
of a perigee moon

caught in a velvet net

and a lake reflection

with the background

of evergreen woods roar

and secrets shut

on our pierced lips

where the cold worm

digs through

our sealed hearts

hang on the question mark[?]

still raw wound bleeds in doubts

stubbed by the pole.

Blood pours over hands of the highest gods.

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