Anagon (le nom d’Albe)

Under bruised eyes – over orange skies of Babalon,
Converted fields where beast is stirred; old dawn
Awakens. In the bringing of an up to down,
Red to white to brown somehow
Suspiciously reflects the fruits of labour I collect,
Love best kept beneath the belt in basic buckle sheath.
Tranquil, as the fire beyond this wall, the column’s vein
In all we know are temporary temples, methods of escape
We feel predate us.

So kneel that I may worship;
Ravage that I might take.
I am open now. Awakened.
And waiting.

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