Towards the dried clots of evening’s old cataract

Skate the deserted church’s residual blunt air

Steadily creeping over the nostrils of dire slumber

Burying it’s sequel’s groans at pain’s square

...

The crotched pulse severs hymns

Born at every sickled iridiscence

Squelching every sprouted breath of hope’s basin

Crippling yet another edge of heart’s crescence

...

The heaven’s pectoral soul crams

In its beheaded word’s tidal beats

Trembling in the pulpit’s dim shadow

Where the silence smitten dust screams

...

The gums of morning’s bangled mist

Addle the maimed bark of dawn

And the basked claws of numb clouds

Nurture the chronic glimpse of death’s cotyledon.

updated by @americymru: 11/18/16 12:07:43AM