Manic

Breath stolen breeds sharpness Borne backward into infantile shrieks The spinstress of sinew waits bated For abhorrent heat Of combustive, collapsive Crossfire from echoing throat Or burnt-bridge lungs A visceral nymph thoughtlessly thieves On Benedict tongue Thrashing in maddened pace Too shrill a manifesto Skeletal soldiers charge A red hill Unsteady, uneven, not ready Frenzy, not frolic I am not a goddess There is something to fear I am something, I fear