Welcher

September welched on it’s promise of gold.
No soft feathers of angels graciously recieved.
No quill to write out the post-op report
on the deathly promise I once readily believed.

The smoke of Tartarus choked out the light voice.
Now the dreams will never call down the wanted seed.
The night is coming down, but I sent the reapers on in.
I could sing a lullaby, but that is just a symptom of heaven’s greed.

 Tomorrow, is the slit of the moon traded for a useless game token.
Melt it down to make an iron ring to sway the clouds to turn down.
Clouds are never heavy with the snow that quiets the daring raids.
A hollow promise is the coin of a tinfoil minute, a luciferean noun.
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