A murmuring flow of words
as I sit on the bench.
They whisper,
I know you.
It is a drop of poison in the king's ear,
racking the house of the Danes, bringing all
labors to an end.
What air is this I breathe?
What stones do I walk on?
The world is left behind.
Layers are peeled away.
This is a madness, a Lethe I drink.
Falling from the wings of a sparrow
I am frozen on your page.
Close the book and I shall be crushed.
Certainty lies in promises and
judgment in a caress.
