Murder Is A Promise That Must Be Kept
Sash into sill then you are sealed to sounds
of sisterhood found you once thought extinct,
surreal reverie in satin nightgowns.
You take a young hand. Fingers fall down. Pink
feverish, wet, two rosettes round her cheeks.
Everyone whimpers. Nobody peeks
from nightmares, too weak to awake. You sneak
about bedchamber, grinding a new beak,
affectation, trying to think — wannest
skin, punctures in veins, cannot lead them away
until laudanum wanes. Murder is a promise
that must be kept. It will happen today
amidst collected unconscious kidnapped.
You lie in wait once you ready a trap.