hand washing
apples are crimson
like the faces of children
who exit their births
breathing as fire, raptured by still tears.
she was a silence of horror
the venom of encroachment
tearing up
like wind
a tunnel of thought
I am only left to this fanatical
flaw
centuries of madness, tearing at the curtains.
like Shakespeare’s army ants
actors in drag, frightened wraiths
isolated...