i.        Shattered Glass Streaked with Ink,
                                        Scattered Across the Bowl of the Sky

Falling like (fl)ashes scattered in the water
of the place of fear, quicksilver tears claw through
crumpled cotton as we roll up hundreds clutched
                    with all the impatient reverence due faith’s
                    fading truths, we mo(n)ths of men, dust once mortal

an eclipse collects, we the spectrum paints black
who crawl through hell expecting a direct route
from its depths to perdition’s (p)roof, collapsing
                    curtains of filth waiting to be drawn so we
                    can look back and laugh, we fools mistaking s(k)in

flaking from their love-taps’ pale fingers for what
commerce’s more charitable gods must be
sending our starved hearts as food, gifts smacking out
                    of us our parched hearts, muscles of mud st(r)aining
                    those fa(n)g-blank digits rub(ric)-red with funds bled

from fire-sale souls our emptiness purchased, holes
we turn over to them as they turn over
in the sweating oasis of their ancient
                    palms these crumbling vessels, these too-fragile shells
                    of cracked flesh we inhabit that silence fills,

curiosity kills, and greed bombs, spilling
whispers, sending on burning wind secrets up
through æther eager to eat them, to the bowl
                    of the sky, clouds of ink we leak when we speak
                    of how science fails to account for angels.

          ii.       A Wound Healed with a Kiss,
                                        Lips Giving What They Cannot Receive

That pain appeals with a campaign painting bold
and even desirable non-being’s lure
of obscurity, seems proof enough of our
                    need to flee living’s c(o)urse of torture, its burn
                    creeping across worlds whose thresholds hang warnings

not to trespass their doorposts, or hold close words
seeming worth learning, toward death heading while
to earth cleaving, hurt leading either to their
                    destruction or healing, between hand and mind
                    a heart guiding we beings of light seeking

treasure where, reason sleeping, miracles hide—
reluctant prophets d(r)iving inside waxen
idols whose vacuous stomachs promises
                    line, sighs t(h)reading through ribs what signs our end-times
                    metabolize, distilling courage from lost

time and wasted lives second chances revive,
we fall and rise in this place where shadows, like
redemption’s rapacious enzymes, dissolve all
                    trace of its bite, existence a side-effect
                    of (t)his medicine we deny until p(r)icked

by heaven’s (g)rip, we remnant specimens sent
by events defying explanation, and
impulse rupturing within, to cleanse from s(k)in
                    not those chosen but those walking wounded who,
                    cast out by their own demons, need some loving.