in their form
forsaken
live and die in disorder
my friend
my friend
eternally
you have been done no favor
the lark
hovering in the air
mild and damp
only sings to remember
the sound of her voice
dew-dropped seeds
dropped from her beak
under the blade
you are fed in the mud
and the lark
hungry
sings to remember
the sound of her voice
it is not appropriate
it is not proper
or suitable for my situation
but i am not appropriate
my friend
i am obscene
this is obscene
the clasp of terror
my friend
holds us in its sweaty palm
wet not from tears
but the porous skin
that its infliction is woven of
to whom does the heart of hearts belong?
there is a vessel
hollowed-out marrow
carved out the bone and
slathered on backs to slaughter
my friend
i remember you
eternally
even when i cannot see you
you are a silhouette
in your form
never forsaken
fed under the blade
my friend
i am beat
i am beaten
whilst beating the front of my chest
to keep the music
that still plays for you
from drowning out in screams