is what I hunger for.
That I'm building a castle on it,
with stones anchored on air.

A castle would be a metaphor.
Down its plumbings
are brooks of thoughts laughing
and sighing so
as to seep up the walls
just as mice flee from broomsticks.

A tick of a man lives
among the castle's chambers,
hankering for a tear of flesh
to make out his peace
in one honeyed gnashing.

Afraid of people, he prefers
to close himself in a coffin.
He thinks he is loathsome
for all the faux pas
the table napkins failed to wipe,
dribbling down his chin.

Always, his desire outwits him,
flying as the reeking, satin-winged,
sharp-toothed creatures
from within the folds of night's curtain.

      Bats are but mice growing wings for wanting
      to nibble the stars, to dip their claws in moondust.

But I digress,
that much I know, in telling you
of such a castle for a heart.

- for Myke, poet-friend and sort of elder brother

John biton
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