Image by Devanath from Pixabay

Eight – sharp and long.

Eight swords of lavish import

pierce his heart and damn him out of his reason.

The black mirror reflects the earthy haze of his cognition.

Three needles bleed still the youth in his blossom season.

Three times three hang on the wall.

Red lace entangles him close,

but he fears the evil of nightfall

and shies from the door of power and hope.

Eight swords stained by blood –

the living ghosts of three and three expanded three times more.

Eight burdens imbibe from the growing bud,

stealing him away from the break of dawn.

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