We
cross lakes of wildfires pulling at branches. We rake
for
roots ever thankful the chosen fled. There’s but two
folds
slipping through pressures afraid to ask.
He ruptured entertainment to stir
for
hells, where apologies were saved for bleeding lights.
We woke from darkness to gander
illumination
desperate
to separate the two; where both lodge in
image,
streaming through likeness; but what for purpose,
sealed
in order, where the former finds a home?
Are two but one a division of self
operating in a
localized
dominion? Nay! Not for division, but rather for
function.
The heart’s a vehicle transported through
dimensions.
Said
heart is thought of as deceitful above all things; but
not
by mere intentions, but rather by vocation; for the
heart
is a mansion, a kingdom, a world within a castle.
Unsaid
rooms speak of darkness, deception, brilliance,
even
the holiness of St. Mary.
We fashion in grays, an uncooked faith,
stressing lakes
of
wildfires. We rinse in psalms a soul bruised for
splinters
lurking within itself an unheard person; for
scythe
to nightmare we fathom that something must give;
else
to cherish the gift of death where seeds flourish into
mustard
trees.
