Sweet static crush
drones dissonant,
rush through the silence
considerate in violence.
Strings torn to screams,
dread wings about a locus
while gentle lips
whisper wonder
in ecstatic phrases.
The stars cast rages,
shadows strewn,
stigmatas paint
our wrists anew.
Coarse thorns entice,
caress our eyes
and vision blooms to
crimson skies.
You ran the risk.
Escaped his gaze.
Avoided sharp and
darkened places.
You clean your wings,
rehearse the scenes
and find your mark
for certain, but
when trapdoors close
it’s given that
someone
opens another.
I break to your bending,
we wake from pretending
that all this is called
a capable con
descending.
And if we wallow when
those wending ways are played,
we’ll find it serrated.
Feste's Lute 