WOLF CRY

              wOLF CRY





At the rise of the moons

nimbuss, wolf whistles ravage

the still air, dense at the

streets 90 degrees where flourescence retreats

  The red lights welcomes the

  hickey blending as halos descend

  into the lecherous cascade



at the suns yawn

strewn on the desert of the

masons brags, new born faces

beam piety to the admiration

of sabled eulogisers

at dies irae, jaws will drop.