Feste's Lute

Scribbles & Sketches of the Unspeakable

Fevered Muse

Unfocused,
glee speaking.
Lost and loss,
stammer and
gloss surveyed
— sanity tossed.
Away.
Let’s play.
Et tu, Mon?
Its truest sense
weighed and won
with a phrase.

Drain

Dreams lace
through forking fingers.
Paths of joy
distorting features.

Swinging stammers.

Shudders.

Hate.

Gloss surveyed
away.

Plague

The stars part,
a morn stillborn,
sea-sparked driftwood bright.

A tangle of grain
with well-worn weight,
and strains of ancient blights.

Quilting the shores,
they slumber the deep
abhorred, they fade from sight.