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.
12/05/2016
Richmond
after “Bleed Confusion” and “The Great Ascension”