Poemetry: Silent Fetters

She sells me into silence

where words are arrested

and breath is bested,

but I surge in defiance.

From her fetters, I burst

and swing the shackles high,

shouting the arcane lie

of Faustian second verse.

One with Faust finds me wanting,

chasing telluric allures

and boisterous roars,

yet all is hollow hunting.

At the last, sense prevails

and quells the riot:

better in her quiet

chains and silent jail

than all the earth’s disquiet.

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