The Arisen

Often, only the child
Expresses the stone patient crawl of purgatory
Twisted locks blocking fulfillment, falling from flame
Lame ashes aspiring to lay dust on the flesh of redwood
Humming, coming like drum, feet tapping rest
Arresting innocence with time and gods
I thought the vulturous pull was insanity
Vanity, till the wail of bloated horn broke
Smoke swelling in arched brushes like lip
Dipping the chalice to the flow of hooded blood

Often, only the wind
Expresses the hollowing rotating blush of Fire
Spires, burst vein sweeping into swimming breath
Air: foul, wooden and collapsible as lung
Humming, coming like drum, feet tapping can’t rest
All all susceptible to the sweetening skeleton
Running mad rage in rage bare streak
Weakening out drop grain, till icy sealing tears
Tear at the liver of desire again; they must, is elemental,
For huddling still, wrapped in the smoky cornerstone
Hope choked, silent and stone faced
Her features become unborn and wet
Reflecting it openly, she releases an earthy wail
That catches itself and rises still carved in her open mouth