Dagger

A dagger in Romeo’s quivering hand

summons a conference of birds on land.

I slip below an unholy grip

and my vision free falls.

The tar of the Void reaches for me

caressing my face like a God.

Go lightly.

We don’t need another hero.

We all have hidden halos

and we all have hidden horns.

We get high on borrowed night,

before the veracious dawn is born.

So Romeo go, go

and wash your bloody hands clean;

you speak in leading questions,

 because you never say what you mean...

2
200.