Mon frère, mon frère, que t’a fit?

Mon petit frère me tient étanche,
From fear of jealousye,
Leaking from his shivering gaze.
He climbs up,
Trying to reach out and snatch away my puppet-strings,
Dancing the dance of romance and entropy,
Blended together into uninterpretable seizures of attention.
Grabbing the soul-tethers with fat-fingers,
The spell is broken,
And the life-river dams in his clutch of terrified greed,
Ending premature the lives of my lovers’ children.
The fear fades, spilling out onto the graveyard,
Replaced by the mistaken pride of power.
“I did that?
All by myself?
It took me minutes to do something you haven’t done in years.
Why do you play with these dolls all wrong?”
He grins through wolves teeth,
Daring me to bite back with condescendence.
“Now is not the time for petty insults,
Child ;
I have funeral arrangements to make,
On behalf of your doppelgänger of moral character.
Let me break our own tether,
To be caught in the wind in another time;
For you are my brother,
Fates intertwined,
But no love of mine can be had for a killer.”
I shrug the clutching babe away,
Taking myself out of the soundscape of the fury,
Incoherent rejections of scenarios,
Refusing to believe that he had finally struck a chord,
Disharmonious by definition,
Like a wolf-whistle that calls the night and makes flee the Son.

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