the edge of the blade,
sitting pretty on the tension
of e flat in a minor position -
your roses, laid bare,
petals betwixt my palms
and my bones.
withered and dried,
long sense harvested,
beauty sold in
solemn shudders.
there they lay,
cobwebbed and pockmarked -
swept across the
icy frontier of her
languid, yellowed flesh
stretched taut
across the
ripple of
her ribs.
here is your
portion -
morsels of
blood.
this my sacrifice,
bring silence
with thine glory -
oh,
patron saint
of fools.