somewhere between
my belvedere of yet unopened wounds
a brace of pheasants hanging on a whim.
am less curious now
my fortress stands on mercury and dust.
arc angels come and go, all neatly packed
dead nettles resting weary with the ordinary rank.
only three more days
to pass the time and flower like a ball
to roll my eyes somewhere inside
the open jars of flannels
for the cleansing hands of rich and yellow corn.
the dead shall rise once more
with tempers dull enough
to cross the palms of ridicule with spit.
my very own gravesend
it\'s iron\'s strong enough
to hold the seeds of a suicidal wren
grey-breasted with a thirst for oolong tea.
one final taste of mercy washed away.
three day\'s away when all will be revealed
somewhere between
my belvedere of yet unopened wounds.
my wren and I together
forever in our very own gravesend
until death do us apart
though we have only ever loved
as premature and tempermental friends.