Feste's Lute

Scribbles & Sketches of the Unspeakable

Tuning

When the strings are cut
they curdle in suspension.

In this way
notes are taken,
driven crying into silence.

Consumed, augmented
self-regard,
betraying fair attentions.

Page 4, Paragraph 1

“A horse, on course,”
he muttered and
split the binding,
severed the syllabus spine.
“Wide rule, wide rule
and only ink.”
A cautious way to think.
For the brink of
sadness sails
far past an asses’ braying,
assaying risks there
for the taking
and mists that fill
the bay to breaking.