In the mind,
in what mind,
a Mona Lisa smile
tempts the masses,
through what she doesn’t say.
Perplexity is the fruit
of the ignorant.
You taste it well,
grape after juicy,
black grape.

Pop to the lips.

And the membrane breaks.
Wet, sticky sin
meets your sandpaper
carmine tongue.
But you won’t tell.
Exterior is judgement,
not thought.
Not feeling,
not the white feathers
plucked
and examined by question.

Only windows to the West
cast light on you.
Quills clutched in left hands,
scribble.
The blaze of crimson
upon your peak.
Usually welcoming,
loving.
But your silk scarves
are poison, that of a viper
that takes all and leaves nothing.
Of your fury, I bear the brunt.
At my sight, Cerberus licks
his meaty chops.
But cannot seize,
cannot usurp your employment
of striking fear
in fearless places.

Fear doesn’t scare me.
But Darkness
is different.