She’s every pathway
he ever forged.
Between them chimes ring
ancient fugues.
Those eyes unwav’ring,
his muse,
His fingertips her streetlight,
their garment hunger in winter.
The edge withdrawn,
we shredded
trysting sets.
Among the creep
rests gavel & trial
in vague permanence.
Unified o’er fallen walls,
the bench shades
gravestone horrors
out & about.
Our wars and blade
withdraw in season.
We wile our betters.
This debtor gone crawling,
we juggle.
We wile away the halls.
We’ll mutter things
and ne’er be done
crawling safer posts
for offal.
We’ll wile, our ears gone wide.
Wile our gun safety,
juggling awful.
We’ll mutter things while away.
The murderers, our host,
ascending voice,
trumpet in hands
(with scaled knuckles).
Pale, we rent our clothes
and cast the die.
Their descent is
dazzling, down
stairs in arpeggios.
We flew to the wings.
The die fell, and never
found its side.
Voice like a furnace,
lit pilots sprawl runways.
Mangled song foreshadows
our ignoble end.
The dark is what you expect, the cold what you’ve held most nights. This is familiar,
a tune sung for an infant. The emptiness honest, it never sells promises. Not even a mention a coming dawn. These winds numb where you need it most. The rain on the pavement a remnant of times long gone.
Always a winter,
she’s velvet on asphalt,
fingertips a-flutter
shutt’ring his eyes.
Blind, he admits
her dark alley jaunts
cordon his thoughts,
parade all his pathways.
On sight of her
streetlight,
his jaws scream out
deafening truths.
Mind like a moth —
her garment stirs hunger,
wings like a moth
she circles again.
Feste's Lute 