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The Moth Gatherer
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Atticus Atlas
Too far
The claws are deep in the flesh
Too deep
The roots are in the marrow
Weary
Death offers a release
Come through
As the sun ascends, the poison becomes healing
Is it visible to the communion?
The staggering, broken bones
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A fervent mouth is reaching for hope
Shooting a silk rope at the brimstone sky
Shedding skin
A reptile gaze
Staring at a box with no oxygen
Open up and let it die while it still breathes
While the moon crawls a sprout is born
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