Feste's Lute

Scribbles & Sketches of the Unspeakable

In Toto

Silo sigh
been seen
thrice male.
Silo’s sigh,
then gusting gales.
With trapdoors sprung
the sterling trudge,
a woodsmen
in a golden sludge.
In proud semblance
of awes, a jest
gapes and jaws.
But as he spins,
the homespun stops —
Lost the house?
We mark it dropped.


Upon mellow grasses
by milkweed wrapped branches
where leaves fall from summertime fun,
we forgo finances.
Smiles creased in laughter,
slow dance in pajamas
as firefly flashes
befriend every shadow.
Between times bright beetles
purloin our damp clothing,
and wheel barrel heist
the tears that set stains.