Who grinds the skulls of us while we sleep?
Children shriveling in the mildew and hay
An anathema, a hematoma with sentient speech
Tainting with whispers the thoughts we daren’t speak
Who lurks in our hearts in the time of dark?
Child of the shadow of the eclipsed moon, laughing
Slaughtered by the spear of man-made plastic
But its creek of blood had run dry aeons before