Your hand holds a bouquet of letters,
plucked soil close to your chest.
Upon your breast rests my word,
naked, frightened; burn it down.
Walls of sound grow from ghostly ash;
your face scorched by lamentation,
strophes hidden in ornate sight.
Speak? no, sing, for silence shields nothing.
Volume decelerates – I hear whispers arcane
beneath the residue of days
I frantically rub away.
for a moment, pricked by ink
and the most sinister of chords.
Idle voices are the angel’s workshop,
so sing every last drop of the devil inside.
Senses flooded by recollection
as loss thunders louder.
Choking on notes, a piercing bow
over names in disarray;
let me tear torrents from your throat.
A frieze untouched, aware:
pourquoi est-ce que je ne chante plus ?
Illumination for occulted pains:
captured shores we never did taste,
yet your perfume remains.
Acres of sand levy a final sentence,
cut our feet with delicate orange regret
into glass easily broken
under the distance of your sleeping gift.