Spice

Wild thoughts of crepe paper
Draped on a grape vine
Intertwined with the tumbling tumbling leaves
Follow a stream of consciousness
That courses down the mountainside
Into the pits of hell.
Gorged deep in the bloody skin
Is a point of contention
Sharp as steamy steel
And the broken man
Falls to his knees
At the sight of sorrow.
No longer does the rustling raven’s rook
Hang high on the rooftop.
Only the starlight
Reaches that place.