Reaches propped, In route to the depths
With tunnel-held gasps, wrapped & snapped,
Held last—Trapped somewhere in Throat’s gash
She strokes context like strings, With words scrawled
In the margins, meant in earnest, To be fed
like bottles, sucked and gloated
trudged out to meet her
But she never plays our tune
She never lights halfway
She can’t hear last acts.
No actual puncture breaks skin, It just festers
Below my understanding of things, I’m left to wonder,
How lost I’ve been?
The blade is sharp and sickly warm, Blood hugs
And holds it there, from a century before;
It thirsts: Doubt and Fear breed, to its edge—
Snapped strings, Ripped from a heart, played
As Sepulcher, marked as Novena to the lost
nothing as before
can ever repair the margins
Wiped clean by centuries, Pushed out,
Another whisper held damp to soft words.