John Biscello

Something about sap, and scent,

and leaving everything behind

to avoid death by porcelain,

and usher in the right rain

in real-time.

They had grown sick

of being someone else’s decoys

engineered to lure in god knows what

on a ritual and teasing basis.

They fled, far and wide,

without looking back, and left their pin-up

shells to model bibbed silence

as false charity

for chastity’s betokened wake.