Archons Poem by B. Sven Telander

Butterflies tap
against the glass
of greater vision.
Staring at the disguise
of misperception
only slaps
the ethereal infant
closer to the devices

of the sky's machine;

A dead muse cries
tears of rancid blood-
no sustenance
for the instigator
of the joyous massacre.

Together, they conspire
blindly with hidden
razors of intent
and slice away
the talaria they fear
will guide them.

Ritual subsumes them
like ignorance in the night
and they search each-
other's talismanic eyes
for a reason to pretend.