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.