Limping, wrapped in tattered ink black cloaks, now take in the Life of isolation. Rejected instead we
Invented the church, now seated in trees
seeding our treasure chests
from round our necks.
Songs without key or measure
Sing from the ribs
Spacing the breaths, peeling back fascia with rusted old tools.
Oh, alchemy, come find our names on walls — such an untimely remedy.
The black birds play outside dropping inside the fountains
Filled by bile of my creation.
The clocks and the stops
Measure out circumstances. My worldly circumference in centimeters.
Becoming food for fools and gold for the winners and cold leftovers for we afflicted
Picked away to the bone.
Vultures fly in the eddies enculturing my new spires.
How do you know when you’re in need of a scarecrow —
When had black birds gotten inside my heart and nested there?
We’re unknown, under the Night the birds’ wings we sew to feather
Our beds in the dark.
Adopted and fostered
Until we slide inside out.
In bodies alit by rays, sons
Signal the end of
The holy trinity of poison, knives, and beaming smiles. Please
Put us down on the ground so we can walk wobbled in arms,
In arms I heard somewhere: we were excommunicated by Anathema.
This punishment alone – none to return with hair of fire,
our foresight’s burned.