I sip on
Blood moons like
Red whisky;
Soul inflamed,
Sight tipsy.
Slit palms and invocation,
I smell like sweet damnation.
Timid treading tantric waters;
Saturn's return three years gone.
Alabaster hairs invading,
Tracing chorus to the song
I sip on
The starlight,
Like venom from the
Whitest grapes.
And from the bottle
Drink champagne.
There isn't much to
Contemplate.
Warlocks on Sunday morning.
Soap talks without a clue.
New chops without a warning,
To catch that midnight hue.
Right angle in the circle,
Is when the veil is thin.
Arcane is our peradventure.
I see you looking in.
©an_odd_who
A