The wings of the dove,
Clipped,
Torn,
Battered…
What is there left of the dove?
The moon's bestial glow,
Sharp,
Antagonizing,
Destructive to the world below…
An image from the lake?
The moans of the pigs,
Wasted into the night,
They nuzzle,
Splash,
Played,
In the murky water?
The crescent stare,
Mocked by the world beneath.
Filth feeding the mouth of greed,
Their voices echoing in the dark.
Carcasses of doves,
Nourishing the stone cold water.
Clouds clasping the rays of the moon,
Others following the distorted reflection.
Can you hear the laughter of the waves?
Do you feel the bitter sorrow of the pigs?
Feel how it resents the moon…
The shallow lake,
Poison,
Polluted,
Foul…
Reflecting the moon's glow.