signal.

somewhere,
in the
distance,

the pitched
w(h)ine
of metal
on glass,

of scrapes,
of stones,
makes a
plea

for
attention.

we are
the
ambling
breeze

and the
wraiths
in the
trees,

curving
our spines
’round
anonymity.

can you
hear
the bell
tolling,

crying
out,
complaining;

its mold
was made
with too
few drops

of
precious
princess
blood.

this
is my
last sip
of
integrity,

my last
crushing
grip
of
enmity,

in the
night,
in the
solitude

of
derision.

cast-iron
cacophony
creeps (now)
carelessly

and
sets
the
tone,

once
more,

for
remission.

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