After II

Still I am not possessed of the clarity I yearn for,

the glassy harvests of words I wish to be mine; still, I am not

the spire of light that ascends

from the soils of the broken Earth, her body

of endless hemorrhages and the wrack of the seasons,

the unaccounted death of the beautiful things.

How is the light

insisting to survive,

its refusal to die, what-

soever the cost of reform,

whatever the price

paid to change back into

beautiful things.

Lord, turn me furious Eternity,

the munificent powers finally unleashed

into the fathomless expectance of the Night,

into the worthy darkness, hollow of pain

filled rich and lush forestry arising

from the dearth of our yore,

we have arrived, we

shall have arrived unto God at last

reformed, remade and changed,

the lash of violence redirected

toward the potent and enduring revolution

of the pulverized heart made into the beautiful soul.



after “Bleed Confusion” and “The Great Ascension