Sharp Murals

Nevermore you will talk
of the forked tongue.
The genie was out?
in the jungle of legs.

Hunger was in plain sight.
You were wary of the wild?
dogs hounding at your gate.
An augury of some spilled blood?

Lachrymal, the soot trickles
down from the black eyes on?
the marbled breast of a lone
survivor in the city of tombs.

Exhume you must the naked
truth? I will not ask the name
of the ravisher, in this crowd
of fast disappearing shoes.