The Spirit's Mysterious Wounds Peter Munro Light rinses down the dark axis of sight, reddens my lids. Its burden thrums through my lively, flinches shadow.
Bruised indictments drum within a matrix of branched veins.
Cynics laughed the one time I refused the anesthetic effects of rage. Now children sharpen instruments shaped steel-blue by three soft blows widen a crow's eyes. But I love the taste of blood and the red scud of wine. I am thirsty. The shame of it curves like a blade bright lets lively her flow.