Spill blood
like wine
over the bed-sheets.
This ceremony
leaves none
unexplored.

As soothsayers
we see dreams
and visions of
time past
and passing
in the entrails
and tea leaves.

What did we hope to find
in the fleshy hollows
where our sweetness
sits in wait
to rot?

Once found
is our fate made sound?
Solid.
A still life
in the waiting room
where we will break our bonds.

When the movement
stilled
and the dust kicked up
was hushed,
did we find ourselves there
under the blood stains
and honey,
or were we waiting
forever on the outside?

Always am I transparent
under a shifting moon.