What leaves catch, lips press, wind hesitates
between burrow gleam wash and tremors.
All eyes propped-up: stem-ends hold cancellation
quick-fall back from tangent shade trembling below.
Here at rest, in recess, we grip like a lamb fold,
not unlike leper’s slough life-grizzled judgment,
hung on a weir of thorns. Where dark ends fork
and apostasy carries a millionth weight
brevity of trial, the myo-dagger forte springs
through us, slashing cosmic-paranoia custody.
Oh, if it breaks the maleficent twists of mortality!
Magenta light flickers contempt magenta dyes
only vanquished, drifting down… is it just season
end, or final epilogue in flames, change of guard?
