I’m
moving low to unravel soul spirit-bound for Cush.
You
die in spurts to grip to hell to whisper a wounded
prayer.
I fly your voice adrift a wing flowing through
an
eagle’s breath. We love for Love both chained and
free
a suture for wounded cries. Oh for nights
screaming
woe semi-distorted enlove with the melody.
We
cringe that thought alive that thought a gift to
give
that thought. I’m running home from years of
fleeing
to rescue a mirror’s image. I ponder sheep and
goats
to decode life to imbue a daughter’s wingspan.
We
give to give for light aloft an ideal imparting
whispers.
I heard it this way, for Gregory The Great,
streaming
through chants. There’s a splinter to tear a
soul
to yearn for darkness; for light is soul-bound a fire
for
seekers. I stress for lakes a winter gone awry a
fireplace
broken. We live it this way to mingle sin alert
to
something carnal; but pain for life and life for rain
rising
through a furnace; for cryptic birth a printed heart
striking
through souls.
