Let it flame—the churn—lost in fancy; approaching
eyes, steeped in deaths, to imagine one night filled with falling—as bent into
memories, as accursed in love, to walk away, for it hurt too much; to come
back, life ruined, irritable, snapping, needing completion. Toes in sand. Palms
to earth. Hearing it, it keeps with dialogue, your face on my map—to long and
die, to rise in resurrection, those fields, those chains, they seem to intensify.
The God in me, as one leader, so supposed in freedom of choice—the selection of
the Judah Tribe, more to fret imagination, more to be a queen, the last to
understand what occurred—the mind giggled, I paused, it was an announcement;
headed to church, haven’t left, still rolling into the nightmare—the baptism,
it helped at first glance, it tore me, it opened me for the turmoil of
salvation; many think it’s a joke, it’s an indoctrination, it’s a war, a world,
a wilderness. Let it flame—the churn—lost in fancy.
