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Lay down your skin
and let us in.
What comforts the sheep on the night before the slaughter?
What’s to believe?
What’s to hold on to?
You drag the weight with blistering skin
A deafening calm buried the lake.
The silver tarnished to black and you’re greener by the day Put on your mask and follow me down through the roots and the crop
Pass the torch in silent exchange
Hands pulling you under a ritual fade.
Lay your flowers by the pyre, give your eyes to the trees –
You are the rope and I am the chair beneath.

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