contained within
a **** stained, blood
spattered, beaten tome
shades under trees,
thriving in agony
life struts about
like a *****
dressed in thick linen,
drab
with drapes of irony.
though you may look
and never touch,
sanctity
slips through thy fingers,
as sand
tall castles which mean nothing
jutting from spaces between understanding
just out of sight,
unbending
yet bending to the will,
a drum carries the dancers on
though they understand not
to what end,
that never comes.
fate which
fires blades of glass
words which cut
more than any knife
and yet as the beat
of another heart does carry
me further,
i dance, not knowing
where it ends.