Glory fading as senses
Integrate with counter,
Chair, floor
And no one remains to
Hold open the door;
The doors are closing,
Life slipping away like
The blood of a tree
In autumn.

Sharp blue
Fragments mingling
With disappointments
And despair into the flow
Of artery, vein, pain
Which is our world, slowly
Overcome with sorrow
But not sobriety.

And always through shattered eyes
And cut throats we
Can see Bliss sitting atop a
Purple hill, as a reflection
On the surface of clarity.

As we swallow the remains of our
Shattered glass and let flow our
Wails, we hear our souls
Calling to one another to
Flee and fly
And seek communion elsewhere.

As spirits like doves fall
Away, they leave untended their bodies
To stumble and drift in exile
Broken and stained
Like the windows of a cathedral.

The breath of our wounded mouths
And bloodied windpipes leaves us in
A rush of urgency, gaining tales of
Grief and darkness which it
Spreads across the atmosphere,
The same atmosphere that is polluted as
Our culture and community.

And while the final fractured shard
Settles into our stomach, we
Suffocate in the blood, ours and others’,
Which was spilled, spilled in vain.

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