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The Brink-Part One
My roots are bare
And a mirror sees me stare
as thrice times over I paw the blade of
Sweet sagittated steel, so bare
And ready to climb the threads of blue caged redness
And then might I be as dry honeysuckle
Or thornsome roses headless
Petals stolen as they fret amongst
Stained sprigs of
Mine at the bow of the ship
That laughs its way through
My kris nag of captivity
And by my carpal twigs
A naked wrist smiles
To defy my nativity.
