Lute Song (Lullaby)

A thorn-prick slow strumming shall lull you
Into whooziness; then you shall
Feel, not hear, the singer's breath
Blow resonating finger-notes through your roots
In a sweet counter-tenor.

Then you shall sleep. Quills will pierce your
Cotton covers, and jab you gently;
Brittle scales will float deftly over fretwork
In modulated steps, and touch your neck
Like sharp fingernails,

And out of hot-breathing chords, emerge
Uneven tempered blade-like textures, stroking you.
Your entrapment is affected in an ivy weave
Of plucked counterpoint, interposed by a pipe voice
Note, whispering into air.

And when the cadence comes, it hangs
A moment, then falls like an insect expired.
Your illumination is ended; blackness spreads in
Seeping stains, and you are left wide-eyed
And petrified, to dwell in darkness.