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.