The marble choir gazes like guards or like ghosts.
I walk on thread. It is my tightrope
and it suspends me like an E minor chord.
He manicures his words so they shine.
In perpetual desperation I reach
to resolution. A water flask
is lifted to my lips but I find acid
instead of elixir. It burns me.
He collects jars of specimens like me. He
strips me, inspects me, misunderstands
my purpose. He sends gravestones and furnaces
as sinister shepherds to catch me.
Give me some sacred script to clutch to my chest.
eerie
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