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
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.