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.
Copyright © David Glines | Year Posted 2005
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