The Art of Shaking Dusk

Rich labrynths sear their sealed lips
among the perched shelves of such
a well-worked widdling craft as mine.
I pull my tongue
to slither through the cracks of teeth
so that all under the fog
know what their first steps entail,
such is the calling of sweet words
when I am the rich soul
stepping foot on the untreaden ground.
Perch yourself high on veering tree limbs
to peer onto the pages;
if a branch were to break
bite your tongue so it may bleed
to leave a streak of your passive screams
on the bark.
I gobble like a wolf,
then cradle my words,
like a mother's young,
after a few strokes of saturated illumination.
Watch this foray of falling climbs and straining muscles;
surely art was meant to for those who danced.
Come then when you please,
to press your newfound leaves
vein-first piled high onto the lines of parchment
that play the pavement like a harp,
echoing wild songs of our high-head stares.