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Frame

\\\Winding down the path of backward wounds she walked into the dying face
Of Light/sharp is the pain of lifeless knives edged with murderous bent eyes/
Breath was yes until Time had taken up knotted frays of years let slack relent/
The child of serpent thighs uncoiled within her cheek and screamed the wind was beating against the fallen mind of Night deep grounds/She opened the spirit tied twice around inside the voice of her mouth tight as a prison whisper or was it the release of Life's careless caress?/She walked winding down to the place of paths beating back the wounds of words and the world/in her mouth a secret whispering keys came to this place///

Poetry by Chaucer Whethers