These are the hands to which small things come to die

for VK.

But Lakdas, something about your dark fury
resonated with mine. Your black mood—

ensnared within the bars and lines

of a self-imposed cage

on the yellowed page; it paces

like a panther to and fro, and pauses

only to bore

into my soul its yellow eyes. And now it rattles

the bars of iron words, and tries to push its way through:

to me, to me— and I feel it! Your black fury pulsing—

it sings in my black blood too. 

How I never knew you

for years— you were dead

and I was not born; and I did not live

until the day I heard your words in the mouth

of a man— swollen, blackish-blue

like bloated sour grapes,

held carefully between, teeth and tongue

to stop them

— splattering —

In the mouth of a mortal man

I watched them turn and move; and suddenly through

your black-grape words, I tasted you — 

Tasted your barely-congealed rage,

your brooding black-tar mood

hot on my tongue: I knew you then.

and now the bars of your cage

I reach towards, while the black panther

seethes behind; and I'm trying to pry them apart,                                                                        (tonight)

and make my way through to you,

to touch your ultraviolet mind

gleaming purple-blue—