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In the office of proclamation sits a red bird

Singing a song of a request

For isolation

Penance imposed by swerve

A disingenuous, disastrous return

Coming evicted

Wrought with vines and shivers and chills

Bumps which prelude illusion

For now I can distinguish between

That which is for me

And that which is of me

Of the labor I laid at the alter

An offering

Crystalline drippings

A mirror with a thousand broken shards

Each bisecting and prematurely altering the trajectory

A tragedy

That we cannot illicit immunity from the thorns

Rather than rush in, remain hung

The berth that held your rest

Obstacle in nature, punctuating

The offensively faded patina

Beingness which implies the biological

Interpretation of a spleen

But also ambiguity of a body

Built solemnly for sorrow

The obtuse denomlization appeared with

An unarticulated, misdirected cleansing

For what must those shells by scrubbed

Removing the muck from their mass

But violence, suspended