Bleeding Moon

The moon is bleeding like

 the weeping tumor beyond chemo

when the night's  purplish green,

stabs of pain like the lashings of a cane

on a parabola back screaming in vain,

pure spite and storm that fogs the brain,

 You looked out to see the stars

feebly winking with no solace

like a lightning bolt that

can char and scar for life.

Prayers are the face of an angel or child

when you feel defiled. 

Everything passes like the pageant,

the Samba parade in a carnival.