chained daisies, leaning over the balcony
patio of silverwood, pillars of ash
the finest weave of silk and cotton

dashed against the cobbles,
left for the rain under the Sistine
the chants of the sacred ring and die
on the ears of the holy,

no sacred union of light
a wash of mists and turn of phrase,
left me unconscious,
dead before pronounced
how many years did it take
to tell the children,

“This is how you release the beast inside”?