He dies and we’re at the
edge of the world quivering —
lost in the future’s lies.
Swords drawn
we march into minds
circling, sparring.
Why snaps past most clearly,
points to the grave we’ve tended,
plot that left us whittled
fine as balsa,
conjoined at the throat
by free will’s love.
Destiny pounds
demonic on the door.
We hide
even as she slides beneath
like earth off a shovel.
Within her gravelly wrath
we embrace the why of it
while how reads from
time’s scroll, records
hands gentling boulders
from bent spines.
Poisoned, you tend me;
broken, I coddle you.
Thorns buried in our skin
shake loose then fall.
As how advances to now
palate and throat butter,
allow pristine words,
clear-cut tales of once.
Together we walk alleys,
the boulevards of place,
unearth amber’s heat,
an apothecary’s remedy:
sibyllic sorcery.