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