seventy-six: broken pieces

imparting dangerous secrets to innocents in the twixt
of dark and light and solitude and rectitude so flawed

swirling slide-eyed twisted claws, of city laws; swift-shutting doors
their lifeblood churns within the edge in odd-limned red; the pastor said

“another’s dead,” the pastor said.

skirling swishing broken gush, a fetid rush; decaying hush
the noises sigh upon the bank in meaning blank; the night is rank

the moon has sank: the night is rank.

darkling winding complex strains, of studded veins; fast-fraying skeins
muscles twist and flex anew in pose askew; they never knew

i’ve broken you, they never knew.

alerting venomous shadows to the weaklings in the vogue
of love and hate and aptitude and multitudes of lies

and all we’re left with: broken pieces
too sharp
to pick up.