a way out –

a hunter ensnares,

tailored baits for

prized captures

unaware of the lures,

like a walk in the park

they come sauntering by

past gold gates

into coffins

with lids like honeyed candy

dripping slowly

unto minds slowly dulled

from too much sugar rush –

though the instinct shouts,

gets silenced by

a sharp stern reprimand from

the matron

who is doing her nightly rounds

to catch those pesty kids

hiding beneath beds, eyes gleaming

on new found pranks

to pull the rug

but the footsteps have become heavy

as time whisk by: minutes, hours, days

then the gray hair, white

her chastened face frightens

herself

she needs no falling from ingenious

tricks, already the balance is off

then the body slips

into an unawareness

with kids prodding amused

that the beastly lady has finally given up,

they go wild from prison abated

took courage from candles lit

in the bleak gloomy dark

footsteps keen and eager to explore

those honeyed ceilings

with bees humming like drones

in a desert

come alive from too much heat.

unsteady, unbalanced, like the matron

on the floor. instincts without experience,

experience without learning, learning

without perfect knowledge. what’s out there?

there is no need to fear,

no more anxious moments,

the darkness wraps deeds like a

secret buried in graveyards

lost from chronicles

while the cold air floats,

while fevered dreams continue

to go past gates no longer gold,

flaked away, scrapped from too much

people swinging, opening, closing

that ceiling of sugar raindrops

dries up, solidifies, is as still as

the the bodies beneath – still whispering

of plucking

another thought, action reversed, memories

replayed

and a hunter holds dear his many beds,

they are his souvenirs –

but all instinct sees is the matron asleep.

a voice broke out in the darkness then,

disturbed the spell laden: keyed in

minds still unable to find an exit route

from tunnels that held no ends

a voice like the sound of a trumpet,

it shook the hunter when matron and beds

began to fade out –

gold gates shimmered, then took

to true form without honeyed touch.

a voice from above,

a voice within,

inscribed, etched, signed

and it made no sense at all – not to the

mind already corrupted

from too much sugar.

a voice that broke the spell,

the first and the last: who has seen

all the guises of a hunter’s bait, the choices made,

and still he calls. and still he says,

i love you.