An episode carved with scalpel in stone,
The loreless maiden, entombed in a crone.
Fists clutching the sanatorium’s gown,
As the man on the ledge flung himself down.
No grave did he find at the bottom red,
But surgical cotton, a makeshift bed.
The Stranger, the Hermit, the Lover, Death.
The Tower, the Prison, The Beast’s last breath.
A shared soul pavilion, slightly deranged.
Indefinite, though parameters changed.
Crush the headstone, by its lesson abide,
Swallow the rock dust to soften inside.
Reach far past the pit with all its regrets,
Forgive all the world and its living dead.
Freely dispense the soot from my hearth,
So it may become the salt of the earth.
August 13, 2019, Tuesday by Passenger B ©