A Glut in Bleeding Hearts

Gawking strangers pass by intrigued by a game to which no one knows the rules

Black pawns and white cracked and mixing in tresspass of harlequin boundary lines

Strands of cold flesh cupping cherry gold and shedding crimson tears

Drought can look like summer or winter

The dance has stopped short

It slices the hope of steam and ice

Love can look like hell or heaven

Invisible ink ribbons out characters in gashes upon a groundless plane

Umbrellas open in file to sheild fragile minds from crucifix rain