🔵 By Marcel Boniface. Photo by lauragrafie.
The under-continent enshrouds the peak
of hell where frost of bane are raked then leak.
A son, inhabiting this mount, has died;
His lover left; his mother wept then dried
Her eyes with sleeves once worn by seed mis-born;
His father’s deal is duty – to dehorn.
Deceased descendants – Plato’s cave – low mass;
Nostalg – they masturbate to shadows cast.
Unlucky sons, sehr pale, none under sun.
The Untermensch sees not a summer come.
They woo the androgyne who wards the wall.
They’d kiss the hand by which she applauds the fall.
Hear Pluto order his lethargic chop;
O Hark the Herald, how the hammers drop.