The god in your body makes a wound
yet you do not make a sound,
hollowed out by exhaustion, fever
plagues the city, withers its

winter flowers’ flaming miracles,
tongues down a melting angel’s
stone-sour fragrance into rib-vaulted
sewers illumined somehow

by splinters of light, golden showers
of shattered halos fading
only now after the fall of man,
redefines for an aching

throat-swollen moment one’s going down,
swallows whole every damned
shadow chaos covers over your
drowned lover’s smile to consume

with a silent mouth your soul’s crying
out, clouding in wilderness
the faith in your Self you sacrificed
to doubt, returning to dust.