Hits and runs
midnight sun.

Mining blinding 
winds of oblivion.

Displacements 
misplacements

gusting 
with fire and death.

The shouting mad.
Here comes the bad.

Jolts tinkling
like a wind 

wounding, around
sweeping arrays. 

To root out sword 
dangling down throat?

At center, a heart 
twining in sand

breaking free 
from fry of pan

turning 
in my hand.

Bed of gold 
so am told.

Like drinking 
in the sacred. 

Freshly 
bottled blood

relics of woe.
Bristle, engulfing

murderous lulls 
sounding alarms.

Flood
the drain

with love 
and pain.

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