the writer, the renowned historian,
who was admired by the young man from the southern valley,
does not know he will not survive the reaping.
this young man, he begs the writer,
'please, carve me into your hands, into your fingers,
into your fingernail,'
the writer looks down at his letter, and smiles,
'young chickpea,' he croons,
'you have yet to realise,
that it is i that shall be buried in yours.'

i can barely feel the world around me
on this cold winters night
but the wine in my belly
and the stars in my eyes
set my veins alight
as i think of the tender touch of a lover
their hands melting along my jaw
this ache, this longing
runs wet
like fingers inside my mouth

stones and laces fly as your soles hit the gravel
on that thick sunday morning
the mist heavy around us
your blouse slowly untucking itself
as you disappear over the crisp hill
you tell me not to follow you
the bitter bite of frost pinches at my hands
hanging heavily by my sides
hot savage breaths ballooning in the cold air
i hear your father's deafening roar
(or perhaps i imagine it)
and it is then that i finally i start to tremble
in all the glory
of the emerging sun.

silver is the colour of a knife
tucked into an ancient tunic
before being curled
into the chest of a dictator;

silver is the colour of thirty round pieces
placed in the palm of a disciple
who presses his lips
against a warm cheek;

silver is the colour of a pistol
shaking in the hand of a vice-president
with the smoke twisting around itself
before history catches up;

silver is gold's shadow,
the patron hue of those
born in the dust
of greatness.

do you know of echo the oread?
whose harmless passion did collide with wrath,
for this mountain nymph did make the queen mad,
such her life was sentenced a silent path;

given the gift of the last words she heard,
echo was to only repeat these notes,
for her own sweet voice was without a word,
only to be found in other mens' throats;

i think of echo this late winter night,
and all the men who did silence her voice,
who have made my own sharp throat seize up tight,
making me feel like i did not have choice;

i tell you, echo, do not let them win,
discard their words and shoot them a dark grin.

alas!
i am in love.
i am in love with despair,
with the feeling of pushing people away.
oh, the satisfaction that they will never know me
quenches my thirst like nothing else.
i feel them leaving,
and the thick voice inside me drips with praise,
smiling sweetly against my teeth.
how charming is sorrow,
how heavenly the vindication.

arms open, she is always there.
night, with her tilted head,
fangs out and lips curled,
shaking with eagerness to ****** away daylight.

i do not mind. the light was not mine to keep.

swallowing the heavens, she sighs as i fall into her arms,
moonlight dripping from her shoulders,
and into my lap.

i breathe into her neck, where i am safe.
in nocte consilium:
the night brings counsel.