too bloody write
burrowed mosaic of scabied words
and crawling
under the skin of thought,
itching to be scratched and bled
into a crucible of verse, that
aught not be the dark blood’s regret
and maudling
clasped in hands of absolution;
but, rapier sharp in fires of ice,
pinion the feral butterfly of thought, and
anointed in the font of the soul’s i do
proclaim it thus, and over such words
in perusing,
you will be the judge of that.
No comments:
Post a Comment