We’ve flattened the cauldrons to blend teal and umber, and sharpened our spent wands to scratch ardent lines. The mud mixed for golems forms delicate ankles, while icons are channeled ‘neath bright, colored light. but not all is forgone, ignore us at peril…
Suit pockets loom, Sportcoat seams greedy, wide-gaping zippers like incisors filed down to daggers. Their inset tongues slaver- drip ichor from folds of silk-linen. Raving for that cowhide- lined parcel.
Be with me, My little writer wrestle angels, daybreak waits. Lips divesting, whisper fervent snare the fool who needs no bait.
Our streets lay under branches where winds are turning, churning turning leaves to fall churning thoughts so sweet of a whitened land so pure for a spring that will endure past the hearts that weep past Death’s chilling sleep In my mind my sister’s near In the courtyard we leave fear and take to the [...]
As saints of old, or those carved in church nooks my eyes gaze over to you and wonder at your form, your abrupt turning to everything that ‘waits your hand and the way you close and seal a book with a lingering sigh And I must move to capture the riddle in your pause And [...]
there’s a mirror-man, with dark, rough hands, in the theatre-alley of retrospect that cues the finest intros his long-cane stills my stuttering lips and over-weight pride en-lightens a destroyer and a builder in turns I smile and fight him as his bruised hands motion for my next act bright stage lights flare precisely when I [...]
