Each mask a motive and directive,
Every facet flawed and triumphant,
In some grand ambivalence.
Willow wood heart wormbit,
Tongue turned to ash in a minute,
We’re guilty as crows in a murder.

I have read the records of these resigned prayers and requems,
I know every thorn is a crown waiting to be born,
Every rose a disdainful look;
Each passage a step,
Sometimes backwards,
Where even bloomheavy blessings belie a blight,
But believe me when I tell you
I love this.

Vodka for breakfast.