I. what there thou seest

before thou rise to repose in bed

a voice minute wept in thy head:

death hunts for truth in every dreamer

but who is he if not to clean her?

early eve with eyes enshrined

paced the fields with pacing mind

brandished pupils, branding gore

stranded hair with vessels more

II. beautiful one, is yourself

each night rising like a phoenix

tarred with ash and analgesics:

if sleep should ever lift a sound

dust shall fall and coat the ground

spared of self but left with none

of who you were, are to become

as lonely fruit held in suspension

plucked by fate. hung in tension