False Senses Deny What Is Rightly Mind

a samurai’s wife is a dead creature she’s fallen on his sword, eviscerated with her office her geisha face wiped clean just before the death mask is placed carefully enough to be recognized when apple blossoms fall, she is gently carried down poetic rivulets of blood and the nightingale escapes from cracked ribcages songs women sing in other lives when feet were bound and mouths were stained red with silence this is not true today a husband will always follow behind her funeral procession butterflies are free to land on any flower while poems eulogize they still shoot horses, don’t they in proper dancing halls when swords are left behind in foreign words Subscribe to this page