Amos Weisz


The first breath of madness flakes away
like slates borne off a roof
and the leaden cupola sinks in the grave
of the ancestor whose words gnaw at me:

"Be a good son and die now,
abandon the great pedestal of your self
and let me die with you, so that technicolor
cloaks rain down from the void"

And your eye clasps me in its emerald
and the bread of years crumbles away,
and you are his wench, you are the maid,
and I do not hold your body.