The mark is traded
the mark has faded
my eyes are jaded
my ears are braided
the softly dulcet
forms an echo
and twinkles through
a grassy meadow
but I cannot hear
the echoes here
I taste once
and blossoms fear,
Death is sister
Death is friend
Death is lover
there is only other,
I can’t bring myself
to symbolic mein
without treasured
metaphor destroyed
far too simple to be toyed
on marrionette strings,
or squabbles
of cobbled queens
and fullsuited armies
of intense beings,
I sit on stone
I hold no tone
and preach to self
with words of blind
vision starting to creep
within my sight
and with a howl
hold back the night,
a torch of fire I shall light
and roast my fellows
on moonless height.