She climbs the open grave
of time, whistling back at you
a plethora of rhymes & riddles
sinking into the backside
of desecrated abandoned statues
a fungus of graffiti runes
etched into fabric of skins
later sewn into souvenirs
sold at rural train stations,
her hair remains a holy relic
finer than any hagiographic finds
men weep into the whistling wind
of her forgotten songs
the sin-bearers sing odes to
under the dwindling sun
mourning becomes Electra
still weaving with light
cast over victims in
obsolete electric chars
her ghost now burns into
like a needle in dead minds
she illuminates the birth
of naked gods
