He
woke up.
It’s
not for malice
trudging
deserts
a
vision in her eyes.
Its
warfare, a slow increase, to fuel for holy. We’re born muddy,
pleading
for water, to see it now. There’s an empire, stressed
for
slain, to praise a fever. He fell a pit, the last of days, a
gradual
stripping. She posed for cruel, to manage control,
where
hell chiseled mirrors. A cat is old, as
cold as icicles,
scooting
near a furnace. She gave warmth, unto death, buried
in
a soul. We deceive self, to point a finger, where cause is
inward.
He left with jewels, to table chance, a ghost for
tomorrow.
Its noon peaks, morning chi, a night for war. By heart
a
prayer travelled, by light of prophecy, dripping into fabrics.
One
could—a need to see, flapping with mayflies. He lapped to
wing,
a wing of laps, frozen in pressure. We weep a canvas,
to
greet a lantern, filled with presence. Its leather boots, for
sooty
mud, to forsaken a sin. He kept a promise, where action
hid,
ten hells deceased; for we treasure not, a fleeting wave,
caved
in gems. Oh to see it, as thin as clear wings, as fair as
budding
beauty; for life is felt, a Celtic charm, a helmet maze.
