Broken fingers, work alone,
To build the cold, stone walls.
Separating perfect worlds,
From any disturbance at all.
If I reach out through the crevice,
Will someone else reach back?
Or will the wall be unable,
To withstand the crack?
Your voice is soft, through hateful mortar,
No pestle can bring me close,
To falling into warm lover’s arms,
So I am left loving a ghost.
Phantoms, phantoms, in the night,
Promised me to you at last.
Though whispers low, and creatures dark,
Let martyrdom retain its grasp.
Lions screamed into the night,
And tore white-veiled dreams to shreds.
The greedy sting of a dagger’s claim,
Left the mulberries to mark our dead.