Lines of worry, stanzas’ cry,
"Rest in peace, my joyful chord!"
Angels licked their lips and piped,
rays reflected in the sword.
Brassy sounds were wind-exhaled,
jungle crowds had swallowed them.
Sense to verse as wrist to nail…
Cells are dressed in rime. I am
hoarding air and show supine
weakness in a trembled mind.
Skies beneath the blade are mine.
Over there the lies shall grind,
nothing seals the gap of life,
nothing stands behind a word.
Angels licked their lips and piped,
for the rays slid down the sword.
February 1, 2011