Love captured you
And demanded information.
Name and rank were all that you would give—
Not even your serial number a consideration,
Not even if it meant that you might live.
But, before she could drip her honeyed water torture,
You had collapsed in rigor and in faint.
She sighed, thinking of the bamboo shoots
She’d cut out just for all of your ten fingers.
Quaint, the forlorn smile she wears above you,
The eyes that cast to another place and time.
Wishing that you had the sense to realize
How meaningless this: you’ve trashed the glutted rhyme!
And how the bell is tolling ever for you!
And now the dirge rolls out its tongue to taste
Fresh rot, in all its glory all around you,
And all you missed in weakness and in waste.
-jenn long
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