Twist

I’ll take the letters with their curlicues and embellishments

while they slip between your teeth

and unprotected, into the air

and hold them, promising them safety, layering shields thick about them

suffocate them

until they cannot escape

or think clearly

Those innocent letters with curlicue embellishments

making innocent words untouched by untruth

and make something new and strange and hated

With just a little twist.

Mordred.

Twisting your words

I’ll play on your innocence,

Warm it in my hands and let it slide through my fingers

Toss it to the ground, admiring the pearly beads it makes

Quiet and unassuming

Until it is silent, cold, and soiled

and refuses to recognize you

as its owner

and assumes the role

of advancing regret

Into your sleeping conscience

Unneeded until now

Give it a little twist.

Morgause.

Twisting your morals

Sleepless, snaking thoughts

of Might and Right and where the words should go

trying to keep them straight and

Separate and clean

coiled at my feet, tense and silent, with beady eyes

eminent death

and anonymity

Staring

With only a candle in the wind

to keep them at bay

with twisting flame

it twists—

Arthur

Twisting my hands