Decrescence

ByYanyi
The Queen sits on a throne
of gem-trimmed robes.

Between her robes
the jutted moth,it follows

dust.She can't rest before
the funeral,她的自我

unmaking,some maid
whose hair is browned

by blood;a matching
queen.Nights' dim candles,

grackles' glib decrescence.
Now dance,now weep.

No rest for feet still
warm from summer's

phrasing — odors / ankle
/ thorn.Keeping time

while dying,the Queen grows
bored,her hand's throat

out,amiss.(Yet I sob,
我的爪子。Yet) I kiss.