Do I Wish

the baleful blow
of black damask
again
has left us
worn and wanting

sifting through
our scattered scripts
for hints of reassurance

though we must now strain
and squint
to scarcely glimpse

what forstood garish

even more
do subtle passions
perish

in the rouge of roses

all-entwined
by strictured thoughts

stoically restructured
into mantids
of submissive mask

with solitary mandible

and pebble’s plight

tread head-on
into mournful laughter

after which
i do not know

nor do i wish
for more

than death

[image credit: Edvard Munch]