Night is coming, it announces
itself
like a blast of wind
which
hangs
from the moon.
The smell of lilacs playing
lazily through my nostrils.
I moan the sacred songs
of
forgotten tribes that once
danced
in
the
rivers
of desire.
Stand before the window,
my eyelids heavy
with
guilty memories.
My mouth flavoured with
dirty secrets
spoken
to the rustling leaves.
Understanding
only that the
clocks will never
cease
to unfold the passage
of
people as they wander by.
And I
know the purpose of hammers.
I know the meaning of the nails.
Hang me
up on a piece of wood,
pretend I am a modern day Jesus.
Drive
the nails into my flesh.
Crucify me. Leave me to
hang until
death.
Night is coming, it hurries to
flow through the
weeping blood
that shimmers on my skin.