they still smell fresh.
after all these centuries,
the odour was still haunting
like a dream,
it was hatched underneath his understanding.
differed.
worms penetrating through the idea,
ceasing the content of home & pages &
chapters &
windows.

they unlock the spectacle within the frames & prose of its nature.
haemophilia.
skin and flesh failed to clot the bloodline.
odour still came out from the wound,
the cat was nursing it,
caressing it with its delicate tongue,
tongue that asks no questions.
breaking the idea into its infinite touch,
but the wound remained a mark & flagged.