The Judge

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.