Liquid, the Stars and Night

Black the pith of memory walking,
a liquid abyss where ruins of Rome
shall heretofore swim, where ancient
chatter of a young cherub and swaddled
boy will laments its own losing and give
ways to riddles of day.  His wicked eyes of
wetness will to a glen depart, a pause from
knotted moss.  He will scamper with his
boots thrown -hidden- behind some tree,
he will break free the wretched roots of
that ceaseless verdant domain, his body
a crucifix, for he realized, all must rain.


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