Mise En Scène

Windshield, a glass mirror, eye-catching
what human left from which outside lives,
what wooded forest found of the inside.
Amongst the mise en scène, the beast lies.

It is within the trees, it is about the bark,
where I perceive such daunting expression.
Quivering: an avalanche of mountainous marrow
and the grip to cliff-like, haunting obsession.

With filaments ever so light, recollections of
all Suns seen and each of their fiery stares.
A disciple warns my nerving patience in tell,
"Never prepare once, for they return in pairs."

An evil so deathly: bedding the thorns to a rose.
May the smallest steal of a prick murder all.
Nails chewing joint, I pray the Lord hears, as I,
whistles throughout the sky as I begin to fall.

For God knows they are merely catchers, sole for prize,
yet I, hind only glass mirror, cannot run from their eyes.