chiaroscura rites

Umbanda.

Never quite cools down: cicala time.
Time to inspect the month-old roach motel.

My art with decorations sags; a world
in flames surrounds the master's pert flea circus.

Though utterly convinced, i do not know
with what, i should have packed, my bug out kit.

Enough, perhaps, only to once have traced
such dreams as stodge this looming beetle brow.

Graywyvern, we are as wandered pismires spilled
a-tumble down the cone of the snug ant-lion.