Sleep soft, in dust, in mote, night wing
dying forsaken by late Summer fruit
the dead may never know our blunder
nor wake from temptation to violence
there in cresting moonlight, come
shine against stone faces lost
wrapped in regret, eulogy misplaced
cover up our crimes for lent and Summer
once you dream a burial, it is marked
by night’s wash of violet passage
Then still, to listen, the ache of time
a tumultuous longing for easement’s wine
draw me close as you push me to pieces
then break apart, by quill and dagger treaties
the observer sees nothing of our terror

bloodied outline, forged in metal flower

yet, yet, we press forward, with pain as our

best endeavor.

7 Replies to “La Danse Macabre”

Comments are closed.