by Amber Halo
Tuesday, October 22, 2002
Print Save Become a Fan
Delicate masquerade, recant my sanctions with pulse, with vigor.
Do suffer the cycle to bend again, and to crumble.
In the end unrelented, with motes in slanted light encrimson.
Factory rhetoric stained and mocked, howbeit beyond attrition of conscious undying.
And thus did see in light's red fade, pressed into dirt that bitter dredge;
with pealing reproach;
of burial's rise. The demons in the windchimes did sigh their quietus.
And at last, solice stood against the wind.
A tear suspended in cool air.