Feste's Lute

Scribbles & Sketches of the Unspeakable


When the strings are cut
they curdle in suspension.

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

Consumed, augmented
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.