Snapped Strings

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.


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