first fall, to the tops of the trees, and seeds are not meant for harvesters

If dreaming turns you immortal, in your presence I remain unaltered. To make this chimera eternal I would face Lucifer

Zephyrs of the season have come, inviting the shadows to dance, A silent orchestra playing, for a suitable companion.

May a lucky one in blood for her dream get a chance. These are not mad Bacchicantes, nor wild nymphs, Now, they ask for their Ichor sips

You haven't killed yourself because you'd have to commit to a single exit.

"I'd driven through Peculiar, Missouri once before... that infernal town whose horrors will haunt me in these last few hours of my life."

A poem in the shape of a spine and ribs attached, written to be narrated from the sacrifice of the cultish ritual of splitting one open.

A sister is giving her young brother away, battling between the grief of her family and the knowledge that he will be taken by the gods.

Your eyes shone with the glimmer From the circlet on my head In the end, Kronos devours us all

Hark! A fable old as druids, long rotted unto the earth: one can almost hear the ice floes as they drift like bodies; an ever unbroken grave

Two dozen crucifixes in this house To remind us of the suffering Of a bludgeoned corpus of a rebel