Feste's Lute

Scribbles & Sketches of the Unspeakable

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.