moonlace:

I finger sutures in the side of my chest.

Left there by a stitcher’s apprentice.

If you let it sit time will sort you out,

or so I’ve been told.

But this wound seems to fester.

My skin even burns by moonlight.

I couldn’t bear to be scorned.

Moonlace was a lovers touch.

I taught myself alchemy to spin

the lie into gold.

All Judas got was 30 pieces of silver.

I count myself amongst the blessed,

I know the truth because I held it.

It vanished in the flame as well.

The ivy on the overgrown tomb,

it told its own tale.

As long as you listen to the voiceless,

you’ll hear their stories.