Poetry

I am in retreat, for a music 
of visitation, 
playing with the words. 
 
Mission failed, 
the upheaval starts in the islands 
of void, to find out 
who was unglazed. 
 
Folding the protuberance 
in a pilfered fidelity, the shards 
had no input in violence. 
 
Mistrial. A half-mad moon 
crashes on grass. The fireflies 
resume the journey 
to darkness. 
 
The fangs were out 
in green charm, in fierce silence 
of the exhumed vault.