Feste's Lute

Scribbles & Sketches of the Unspeakable


the oldest fables
rise as dross.
The faith is frayed,
luke-warm, and
destined for the flame.
Pathetic kettles evenly
pour blame.
A righteous rage
half-hearted and untoward.
Forsaken, sickened, ancient.
The Rust will reign.

a snippet

Mr. Polo cried “Marco”
and slapped his own back,
“the tricks of your trade routes
are under attack.”