Like poppies blossoming on cinnamon skin,
a scent of liquidity and movement
trickles down, flowing away—a stain
pervades, hiding from the light.

Just a bite through appled flesh
and it all fades milky cold
to glisten against the shadowed
halls without a sound; falling
is not forgiven

nor is it bound in a leathery
tome affixed with flutters
of seraphim and songs
chanted to darkened walls

hollowed: the name of timeless
beauty.  Garnet drains in a pulse
breaking against the grain
within the hourglass and hands
that grasp at forever.

So alone.  And frail with thoughts
of staying that way; every footfall
never finding another stride
to syncopate beside.  Fear

is made of un-belonging, like
a lion’s anguish lolling
through his teeth, predatory sharp
but lamenting for the lamb
and desire and everything

not supposed to be acquired
by the one abandoned by faith.