(Note About the Podcast Episode: I changed the name of this poem after the point that I had recorded this episode. So, you will hear the title as the moon. This is not a mistake. Just a change.)
Hands of a ghost upon my face.
Seen never eyes.
Makes blood race.
Breath frozen walk.
Whispers on my skin.
Think of that day.
Ghost. Silk. Flesh.
Flash of hands,
on my throat.
Still I can discern dead eyes.
Though, physical form, rotted long ago.
She hopes to see fear’s reflection.
Reflected in my eyes.
Tortures not temporal or ethereal.
Soon shall be my fate…
I do not repent!
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