Pasttime Spells

She speaks of dreams
and lets them set,
reduced to transcriptions
beaming more answers
than I ever had before.

She keeps turned her face,
motherless tears beside fault
merciless songs beneath apathy
sirens be damned,
my repressions are soothed.

Pity my pristine mirror
Who shines back taphonomy,
Levels the stars and silences hope,
Dries the warm pond that scathes,
Culls the weak for the standing.

These shakes of will and dominance
Fume a red and hellish steam
That burns at the tenacity
With tar in the tear ducts
and sloth rationales.

But Ekindu has been touched,
A faith through forceful entry.
Stockholm syndrome culminates
and the studders calm to
gleaming freshwater tides.

To the burdener of innocence
Purity is a hell of a prestige.