i dream of knives flying

heretical

through the darkness,

so bold and

fast

no shivering speck of light

is able to touch.

the sound is the only evidence

of this bloody masterpiece

of balleting madness.

and while the things may be

obvious and certain

for the pious

and the righteous

i lay deaf

in a sea of dark

wine.

the whispers fly by.

through.

nothing is left of

what was the darkened

cvasi-verse

that is this bottle.