All there is, is fragments, because a man, even the loneliest of the species, is divided among several persons, animals, worlds.
Coleman Dowell
Funneled spouts of premonition
sweeping nuances in motion
Forecasts in magic cognition
The proof of truth a bitter potion
Decisions are commitments to predictions of the future
Faustian fragments
Conjured playthings
Temporal favourites
Mastery revealed
The darkness of a hooded figure
The dust in my neighbour’s eye
The centre of a swirling enigma
The place where men come to die
There are any number of futures but only one past
Cushion and needle
The thread will need
To bleed and end well
Feel the fabric plead
I have come to the woods to lie in wait
Carrying the body against my breast
I bow down with the bluebell’s fine tendrils
Seeking where the night winds find rest
A silent stranger
Devoid of fear
I step back
His face queer
A mannequin
Taut and thin
Poised
For the hanging rack
Sparkle, words
Capture the light
As life, give life
For an instant
Then fade
As adornments
For your crypt
Late Middle English (in the sense ‘cavern’): from Latin crypta, from Greek kruptē ‘a vault’, from kruptos ‘hidden’.
The Twisting Tail 