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Fox Womb

Full Of Hell

True blue syphilitic grace, aligned.
Pellucid intentions of thine.
The knot wood overgrown nursery is reflecting,
“Cerebrum tuum putrida”.
The Goldfinch and the Tern have begun feasting on what’s been left.
The grey matter that the soul mate rejected
Cannot subsist on seed husks.
Where did it go? The sense of enchantment, the endeavors of passion?
Thinning hair line, lost in inception, time elapses.
The cobbled foundation, so simply begotten, stands monolithic.
Wander, swift fox. For love is gone, fertility has passed.
Wander, swift fox. For love is gone.