Inscribed in Flame on a Candle with No Ends, Lit from Within (When Praying to a Nameless Saint)


Alchemize to hermetic vessels impervious to worse hurt than they have already endured, these broken bodies of ours after their tormented hearts have been scarred, torn warm from unread palms


Perform for the itinerant thoughts that wander mendicant the rusting hulls of our embattled skulls, rudderless and appalled, wonders and encouragements to quell and soothe, without further superfluous words, those frothing worries which pull ship-shape to shreds full-on toward desolate shoals, with desperate concern for tomorrow, what tempestuous pitfalls no disaster on record ever occurred


Gather in the shelter of your arms the overwhelm of lovelorn troubadours unrewarded after abandoned by storms, as candlelight pooling in the polish of coloured stones pours and transforms the smudge of shadows to oracles reflecting sundown, as though imminent doom were prescient porn, turn to hard alabaster this delicate porcelain of brittle bones


Hold as an eye does a tear worn weary as an exile’s veil over the wind-whipped surface of a last-chance glance, the purgatorial topography only sorrow explores, this glimpse of two wounds bleeding one into the other, temperance repulsing a dance death attempts


Wink into this drying well filling with pink sand and purple regret what offering you will, unless or until, your memories build a crumbling temple to what you wish to forget, there seek what spills within hourglass walls, this moment of ours waiting too long kills over and over again whenever we begin to beg into question the intent of another’s affection.