We wrote it down,
untwisting mists
around our minds.
Across the steppes,
along the staircase,
upon the branches.
Knee deep in reeds
past sleeping jaws,
on death of silence.
In search of the brilliance
stolen ages before.
The bleeding reached
our ceiling with a leap,
seeping up the cracks,
tracing shades on palisades.
The impact shook our racks
and left us seeming
leached of every tint,
never a hint at scheming
or anything off-color.
Intentions would be
ever so much
more promising
if they could be gripped,
caught by their fur,
held by their scales
or plates of chitin
instead of glaring like
staring salamanders,
wriggling polywogs peddling
a promised change.
Feste's Lute 