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Two Silver Moons
The alley has silver sight,
two orbs shadowed in scarlet
with markings of death which
dance like demons in play.
That bruised throat is bared,
like werewolves' prey,
mangled and ravished, leaving
no signs of human remorse.
A crimson river dares to
escape the slitted carcass
as if it knows the workings
of forensics in this society.
Two sterling moons watch as
cerulean spreads over the scene,
using the dead as a model for
their eyes of eternal memories.
Last is the envelope,
blackness engulfing the lost one
with a zip of the wrist, she
is still breathing in that alley.
I feel her. That gin-baked
breath that rolls from her
blood, sour and sweet
much like the rotting ones.
She does not exist,
we choose to abandon her,
condemned as us all
in the light to the dark.
