I strip my head of its graying fruit,

And weave a pen of dead strands.

I pool the ink from the

Thick tar of a midnight breeze,

And scrawl a message on your back.

Your breath escapes from the tunnel

Of your parted pink lips.

I know you lay shackled in a

Jailhouse of dreams, and yet I whisper

Into your slumbering ear before I

Etch the truth onto your figure.

Can you keep a secret?