Sta.sh
and you, my darling, weren't
ready to die. nor
take up his scythe with those
butterfly hands
i saw your eyes scream
heard them click open like
a locksmith's heart. you
did your best with tears. but
the gem betwixt your
fairy ribs
was deceitful
do you feel it now, i wonder?
does it slip, unobtrusively, like a
sliver 'neath the skin? or
like a fingernail on glass
drawing bloody pictures for
pathetic artists
death
who has no training
but excels
and worships
and dances
like a drunken reveler
he can't hold his
ecstasy
when he closes
shut the case
daintily
and locks the fairy in
good
night
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