David Estringel

Bitter Fruit from Suicide Trees

Come, 
hear us now 
sing you songs  
of truth (and woe)  
‘cross the seventh divide,  
the salves and stirrers  
of blood  
and breasts  
that ride the flaming cold  
of void  
and harpies’ breath, 
wrapping icy tongues 
‘round gnarl and knot  
of stiff, blackened fingertips. 
Take hold of hands 
(and ponderances upon lips) 
thorny in their grip  
and snap the bones 
(How the warmth of flesh  
brings longing  
for days of Summer— 
a sweet ache) 
and listen  
to the symphony bleed. 
Seize these rings  
(of mettle and fire) and 
attend 
to the rattle and hum 
of imprisoned shells (and shadows),  
separate 
but a part,  
with dirges and prophecies— 
hot and fecund— 
that disturb the white silence 
of Oblivion’s hellish sleep. 
How sweet— 
ephemeral— 
the melody (the melancholy) 
until the breaks—and 
words—run  
dry. 

***

Originally published in The Opiate