What did you know of the darkness of god’s plan? Or how the flesh is so frail it is hardly more than a dream.

How well you’ve done.

Now call down your dark and your cold and be damned.

In dreams his pale bride came to him out of a green and leafy canopy.

All the waters of the world turn to blood.

At a crossroads a ground set with dolmen stones where the spoken bones of oracles lay moldering. No sound but the wind. What will you say? A living man spoke these lines? He sharpened a quill with his small penknife to scribe these things in sloe or lampblack? At some reckonable and entabled moment? He is coming to steal my eyes. To seal my mouth with dirt.

Silent shroud.

Every time i close my eyes.

It’s always the same.