Uneven Path

It was a summer night.
A windswept moonbeam
plummeted. Sexualizing

an indigo flesh. A butcher
was seducing
a spider, in company of

a holy book. Sunbathing in
mass grave of skulls. The eyes
peeking out of the caps.

You want to pluck the blue
berries from
volcano mounts. The key player

will burn your script. Body
of milk died on snow. The
moth was coming out of cocoon.