by A.J. Huffman
He comes
in the darkest hours
of the seventh sun.
Carrying the sweet black candles
that sweep through my soul
like a half-finished dream.
And whispers the softer touches
of a forbidden god
across my lips.
The moonlight frees his hands.
And I am left
with a stone tongue.
Cold.
And too heavy
to weep
for a broken world.
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