Brittle trees Stand so close, Heads lean in to touch and talk,
Whispering merciless rumours, Slender and fair, Stroking their silvered trunks.
The black host between, Hostages gripped In secret, cramping cells.
Trailing steel of death, This man haunts himself, Transparent as scum water.
Stand back, no touch, Derst even look. His shade Kills instantly each gliding pass.
He had descended The perilous steps Into the deeper world of loss,
The sliding passways Lined with screams, The 72 hand-fingered sigils.
Across the unflattering water, Oars dipping in the sea; ‘Would you like the radio on?’
The shore a constant
Running mad erosion, The shifting slit of death.
Led to her side. Was that a touch, A blaze, a blaze of ice.
To taste again The odour of your skin, Or catch soft breath.
Cut, cut, cut, cut. It is the crying Hurts the most.
Another voice Sings out Along the buried vaults.
Blindfold ripped away, Despair sees off, The figure fades.
No turning more. Song and blood. The scenery of death is vast.