The skeptic, exiled early to a Willow tree.
And now silver scales are held aloft,
a lopsided trophy, sinking under dark art and muddy-bellied fear.
Trembling psalms are heavy on liver and shoulders.
He is crumpled under stone, glazed in grave confusion,
dictating, amplifying, distance between,
blood and light.
His shackles are tight, delivering pain without a (question) mark.
Projection is a bullet to receptive cells and feathers fall softly on sad feet.
The mission: vulgar uncertainty, banshee panic, whiskey driven noise.
Flesh is his generator, he see’s only dirty fingers, blind to the sky.