Flagellant

Again with the claws. Self-inflicted

this tongue, these fingers, this damage

the whisper of the battle horse. The precise instruments

of divinity lodged, sinking into a socket

pierce and flaw and want.

The tuned black fibers framing the sensual eye

fold into a sleep,

the dead trees darkening

into silhouettes, raven sketches, before

the setting of a scathed sun.

Scars

the mare does not know,

her high bone grazed by lashes,

she does not despair.

Corrupt my learnt dance with a selfish word

And you will witness a resolve. Execution

Upon execution

This hand will not fail to deliver.

with a stained glass sphere warm in my palm, I withdraw

Into the thinking

that with each new vein of exploit

will come a rose.

There is nothing like the sunken sadness

Of having been snatched out of a scene

Comparable to the most obscure expression of paradise.