
Upon the Forehead, the Morn doth Break
That day
When the evening descended
The morning moon,
hung low in the sky
Seemed mighty pleasurable
The body wrapped
In the faint moonlight
Like the sky
inebriated by an abundance of darkness
and, after all
How does one proceed with the act of living?
Quite unexpectedly,
seeped into the bones
A rather intense thirst,
Somewhere, an iron nail,
Was struck
shudder a notch
passed out
across the timber
Only kept shining,
It’s head
Quite distinctly
Amorphous, akin to a waning moon,
What a lovely adornment!
