Feste's Lute

Page 4, Paragraph 1

“A horse, on course,”
he muttered and
split the binding,
severed the syllabus spine.
“Wide rule, wide rule
and only ink.”
A cautious way to think.
For the brink of
sadness sails
far past an asses’ braying,
assaying risks there
for the taking
and mists that fill
the bay to breaking.

Say It Back

Tell my kids
I stole a sampo
in my heady days
of youth.
Killed a beast
and beat a deadly
rhythm on its bones.
Swallowed, shipwrecked,
swept away by eagles
if we were running late…
A better fate than this,
better far than
toiling in a mist
of mediocrity.

Yggdrasil

We wrote it down,
untwisting mists
around our minds.

Across the steppes,
along the staircase,
upon the branches.

Knee deep in reeds
past sleeping jaws,
on death of silence.

In search of the brilliance
stolen ages before.

White-washed Tombs

The bleeding reached
our ceiling with a leap,
seeping up the cracks,
tracing shades on palisades.
The impact shook our racks
and left us seeming
leached of every tint,
never a hint at scheming
or anything off-color.

Here Comes Guilt

Intentions would be
ever so much
more promising
if they could be gripped,
caught by their fur,
held by their scales
or plates of chitin
instead of glaring like
staring salamanders,
wriggling polywogs peddling
a promised change.

Mettle

Why are we so wound?
Astounding sounds confront
our bobbins as they fall
to ground and take us all
beneath the moss and heath
to breathe a grainy haze
and coat our lungs
with dust of ancient
days, raging souls
that bore the rack
while we beg for reprieve.

Trot

Poles reverse,
hearse entrances.
File attraction,
as learners reflect.
A child smiled
set swinging.
A gilded child
enchantment.
Horseshoes
stretched past attraction
feign wakeful hate.

Abrasion

A beast in recess
crouches beneath
our nest.
And we apprehend
our reasonable fears.
Hackles lift
to pirouhettes, twisting
comprehension
around our neck.
Forsaking sense
for survival
has us
dead to rights.

Dermal

The text neglects
to assert
the hurts
she was prescribed.
The cure
was worse
by far —
frigid ever-afters,
naked for want
of a spindle.