Through A Scratched Sky

Grape squeezed with thumb and finger,
juices lingered on her face,
traced her chin
and fell starkly on pale skin

like souls sliding through a scratched sky
asking "Why, why this madness?
What address is sin?"
then fell deep within

the seams, the screams of insanity,
urgent vanity, unsung stirring,
blurring the real and surreal in,
within ether sweetened wind.

Crisp water erased
in haste, what laced our gruesome feast,
and released the redemptive unseen,
that keen white towels wiped clean.

Having kissed broken glass
we passed hallways of mute nether.
Whether passive souls can weep,
they keep our unfulfilled sleep.