Black Mass
wretched hands hold
the christine cup passed amongst
the black robed circle,
aloft to the lips of the languisher
as her scarlet sleeve shrinks.
grieving, wailing mother
watching it writhe,
it writhes,
a baby bloodless,
it dies
& this cold night, the blood,
it dries
to our moon-lit lips.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
