Feste's Lute

Scribbles & Sketches of the Unspeakable


Beneath the
spire a shining
conflict, a castle
cracking principle.

Our sister, an
anagram — a shell
of eternity, a laughing
sprite remade.

The forking
paths, the ink-
burned fingers. Devotions.
Wistful play.


It fell
cracking columns,
plinths shifted
free of place.
Backing ‘round corners,
sailing dry straits,
strafing mazes.
You left me turning
left at the wall.
Cheekbones raking earth,
eyes averse,
fingers searching
for a center,
for worth.