Cyrano de Bergerac is by my side.
His mouth is full of clever pearls
Vaguely sounding like gurgled truths,
Seems to have read the Bible a bit backwards.
I never thought before how angry he must be, what he chooses not to say.
The bile that stops in his eyes
As his lids fan his mounting rage.
His sharp fingernails, the horned beast’s simulacrum. Does he think
he’s better than everything he’s ever read,
has he found anything pure enough
to raise him from the walking dead,
Cynical de Bergerac? Those things
don’t come out of a mouth from god,
he’s a master thief, for which he will pay. Does he believe anything he says?
His knife at my neck,
It feels like a breeze.
I move into the moonlight. I walk tall. I get the girl.