Brian Celio

The air winding through the weeds
Is warm enough to bloom new seeds,
Sowing shelter for the shroud,
So screams, when screamed, are never loud.

Hand-in-hand I stand with Jen
On a path carved by years of sin.
She kisses my neck then tilts her head
To look at the fog making a long soft bed

Above the lake, under the potent moon.
I tell her this shroud has a tune
That makes limbs tremble til they stop,
For the water always needs another drop.

She turns to me with a quizzical stare,
Brushes her hands through my hair.
With moon-doused eyes she asks
If I believe the night is just a mask

For what can’t be seen by the sun
When all is said and done.
I tell her she’s precious and wise,
That the night is surely a disguise

For places too beautiful for words,
Too shrouded to welcome morning birds,
Here, only the unknown can remain
If the tune is to keep a quiet man sane.

She says that secrets can’t be kept,
That all tracks show where we stepped.
I turn around to see no tracks on the path,
Then ask if she heard the Shroud Bath.

She answers no and starts to tremble.
I smile without eyes and feel her nimble
Hand part from mine as she steps back.
I grab her body before she falls slack.

I ease her down to the mossy ground
And ask her to whisper what loud sound
Awakes the unconscious from a dream.
She whispers, with tears, “I suppose a scream.”

I wrap my hands around her throat,
As the bed of fog stays afloat.
I squeeze tighter then give her a kiss.
Her moon-doused eyes I will miss.

But the air winding through the weeds
Is warm enough to bloom new seeds,
So I tuck Jen into the sinking wraith,
A secret kept silent by her blind faith.

Brian Celio, © 2009