Borderline
December 2014
wicked tendrils twist
sent forth in innocence
if innocent you call
no intent at all
blackened midas touch
ashen all you clutch
liquid, livid plague
all are sent away
gloved hands foray
lamblings led astray
paper masks cling close
dulling thick echoes
among her painted ribs
dribble minute fibs
too afraid to dream
of a fate not yet redeemed