Vineyard of vermilion.
A bind holding hands in entranced sky,
While the bird lays beneath,
And the pig flies.

The labyrinthine stone,
The intricate, desired key.
We mourn the ****** flesh
Between crooked teeth.

I’m cold in my blanket.
The diamond pen writing ugly names,
While we encourage
The very same.

We pick-pocket the honey of bees,
And sinking eyes notice more
Than the spyglass.
We ask the wrong questions.
Fire knows a place beneath my skin,
My heart of fertile earth,
Unscathed by the cult or the creed.

Vigour of the bully,
The scar of the fossilized abuse,
While bodies dangle
Of the mangled noose.

Graveyard pursuit;
We dig the bones of yesteryear,
But we don’t clean off the dirt,
Or wipe the tear.

Beyond the known sky,
Truth lives in a lonely house.
When the lunch bell rings,
The lion is food for the mouse.

We pick-pocket the honey of bees,
Unscathed by the cult or the creed.