the silent opus

the curl of the cup
against the lip
red
as the rice
from unbecoming
shades

"...as caustically haunting as red on china", critics say…

one, two, four beats

it is
as is
the light
of the world
punctuated by darkness
her moonlit moan slides
rashly
down her throat
pungent and piercing

if she were in her own
the songs would come
unrestained by the
wanderlust white
of the milk
as it pours
soundlessly on sable skin
rich with spite

unforgivingly bright
against the black faced stage

if she were in her own
her opus would be mundanely beautiful


she'd refrain from her refrain
her genius her own undoing

instead she's
tasting life
raw and hot
from
the foreshadowing

eating sheer will
until
there is no room
for the distended dissatisfaction

her,
un,
be
come - ing
un be com ing
unbecoming
as they said
she
would

the last note lingers
unmolested
it
rips the veil of their "ohh's"
in a rapidly rising troubled resonance
it tolls;
absence waters their
reddened ears

still
lost in the light
she
never hears