The Lyric That Made of Crime a Prophecy

Shattered glass streaked with ink
                    scattered across the bowl
          of the sky breaks under
                         one lost soul’s crippling wait,
                    anticipation’s forced
                              hoarfrost breath creeping poured

tears to pensive blink, poured
                    pleas painted over, forced
          by others’ pain to wait,
                         lovers whose complaints ink
                    portentous things under
                              skies better minds to bowl

call and with skill bring, bowl
                    upon bowl stacked under
          emptiness like domes ink
                         crosses over once poured
                    out, canceling time’s wait
                              for those from their bones forced,

and in that moment, forced
                    to surface, souls await
          consolations clouds poured
                         before birth broke their bowl,
                    taking back to earth ink
                              roots inflame, thorns under

dirt clawing what under
                    torture burns, rubric ink
          itself learns turns each bowl
                         on its potter’s wheel, forced
                    to perform prayers gods poured
                              in mortal ears that wait

on hurt’s cleansing, that wait
                    no other storm when poured
          makes feel so cursed, so forced,
                         this existence under
                    their regime’s scourge no bowl
                              nor arms care to hold, ink

                              a captive soul’s blood, ink
                    what those who, pulled under
                              love’s spell, know is just forced.