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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.