Lace of the Moon
Women are slippery like buttons
in the fumbling hands of men.
Withdrawing from the confines,
a backdoor in the dark.
Woods near by swallow.
Men of fang, wait
with their mouths open.
Women are always braless
in sheer white night gowns.
Night ghouls are haunted
by the lace of the moon.
Women of this sort
only claw and never scream
when they are being consumed
by the dampness of foliage,
soiled hands of danger.
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