crawling, burnt with Holy Spirit at the foot

          of the great Hall.

                             hot, no finger pointing

at the crossroad of the Elysian Dam

                 and that dusty quenchless sea.

        fire, light unbearable

to those two brown eyes that hunger for voice.

an only champion

    of beggar’s bowl and head lice cause.

           circumstance only for

                    her lungs.

     let the air flow in

as liberty swings too low to launch our mystic to truth.

                 He has told you,

       now you listen.

inherit the earth underneath your nails,

              and feed on recycled prayers,

while the horses gallop with broken hoof       past the curfew of the silent night.