Thoreau

Balanced on poniard hilt.
Breakbone fever.
Out-flung,
out-strung,
out-sung.

There's a single golden thread.
Blazing forth from my head.
And a cleansing fire comes.
And I'm burning.
And I'm ash.

Twirl.
Here's a crimson flower.
Soaring and slicing.
The surface is breached.
You'll make a mess of the floor.
Fetch the bleach.

There's no greater show of love.
Get back in the box.
I'm closing the lid,
and you won't be allowed to alter.

Get back in the box.