Poetry

When the dialogue stops 
there will be a royal bleed. 
 
I had not come to the 
terms of slaughter. 
 
Wanted now, to manage 
the anguish incontinent. 
 
Can you find some space in 
waiting, for the hangman? 
 
Footprints and invisible faces. 
Somewhere a hope lives in amber. 
 
Trapped light, in wintery dark, 
will stop a seed to play the nocturne.