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Poem

to love, is often to bleed,
cut at the wrist through the fields of reids,
mummification of a beloved memory,
wrapped in caramel gauze of a felo de se.

“should we see this heralding—?”
asked the lonely chimera to the aardvark,
her eyes welting with levees to break,
single teardrop of a fallen empire drips to hands.

“time cares not for your water child, just your heartstrings,
but by which face, who will you let lead is the mystery,”
its cane snapping, sending it bouncing down the hill,
quick way to get around, if you are built for hellscape.

“to which face i lead,” it silently speaks,
“am i the lion, a snake, or just a sheep—?”

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