(“After
having attentively considered it, she cried aloud, “Liars are confined in the
vicinity of Hell, and their sufferings are exceedingly great. Molten lead is
poured into their mouths; I see them burn, and at the same time tremble with
cold.”) (Purgatory, 19-20)
(“Will
the Lord be pleased with thousands of rams, or
with ten thousands of rivers of oil? shall I give my firstborn for my transgression, the fruit of my
body for the sin of my soul?”)
(Micah, 6:7)
I
was wrapped in sins, peering at sorrow’s eyes, this forbidden joy; as altered
deeply, cringing our welcome, at tears to induce our pleasures. It broke his
heart, stationed at assumptions—that picture that bible that infant; too see
for torture, too young to articulate, this needs for something powerful; as
having visions, consumed by rooms, this haven for comforts our minds; as born
wicked, addressed at baptism, to sin by vice this courage; as roaming streets,
at wars with self, to hate a piece of this reflection: our mother’s child; our
fathers angst; this wall so high to traumas; that casual sin, as sensing this
child, to lose for virtues that pill. I was wrapped in sins, as seeing visions,
confined to revelation; as reading scriptures, this demon afar, trekking its trail
this past; to shadow hearts, to dwell within—that volt to torture this mind:
that ball of fire, as coming in threes, to induce a bit of trauma: this newly
born, as seeking amendments, to atone for a neighbor’s sin; to put us first, as
drifting for last, to season this temple with courage; this faraway—as tinted
in cessation, skipping through halls of purgatory; to read each line, this
falling by grace, to speak this myriad of tongues: those frozen bars; that
metal bed; that naked portrait; as reeled by hell, this afflictive scene—our
picture screaming of trespasses; to die come Sunday, alive come Friday, while
seesawing from angels to demons: this blatant tension, awake as falling, to sip
by ears this inner knocking; to feel that thump, this mental trestle, this
kingdom I wished to receive. (I’ll give us fire, of not this soul’s, but a
vessel carrying a torch. I’ll give us clearance, as not this soul’s, while
guiding one to their helm. I’ll die this sin, to retrieve this star, as ours
roams this inner planet); as hell is reaching, to sing of fears, as reporting
our every sin; to redeem this life, this must to advance, to read through
terrors that confirmation. I lost to gain; I gained to lose; as now our
portrait as shredded scriptures: this terrible lake; this molten heartbeat;
this agony tugging at cherubims. (I’ll give us light, to pass those keys, as an
engine ignites. I’ll run for closure, siding with fasting, as one burns seven
candles); this lot of fools, to believe as Paul, this infant crying in Spirit;
to see such eyes, those diamonds as gems, peering into deliveries. It takes for
courage, to hear this voice, as it pulls at seekers. We can’t escape, this
threaded tradition, to pick by force this chi: our rounded woes; our breaking
souls; this page as written this Book of Life; those craving tensions, to enter
this pleat, to see for heaven on earth (Sedona); this raging forest, as winds
through wounds, this room to echo as, “Oh my God.”
