more of an ode than an image

your splintered lux
stabs with shaped satin
softening the angles
off murder

make me call it sacrifice

a coward holds the highest sword
in the world where your hero's wind
words the fool's lute

mark for me in chalk
the backs of which observers
deserve split seams in pockets
or which ones seem to need
divine intervention

spell with me this moon
that made the nomad
form the fourth letter to god

breathe life with me
into the disease
that breeds along the spiral's edge

let's pretend that we don't know
that we don't exist
and let us cement
this treason of being
with the shards
you've undressed




*note : entered into "take on a role comp" - Aish