They moved the midnight mass, to early morning;
scarce priests, sad undertakers to another realm,
crucified failures, transubstantiating,
drifting ecclesia with no one at their helm.

It's nearly midday inside every bell, and every tower,
with angry flags of darkness, upside down,
waving like victims of a breathless hour,
ghosts trapped in an abandoned, soulless town.

Impaled behind a monument of Phoenix ashes,
descending on the pole stuck in my groin,
missing the tender pain, fond memory of their lashes,
marooned on the reverse of a forgotten coin.

Left alone at the edges of madness,
estranged of its myriad of seedless grains,
intoxicated by my executioner’s kindness,
cleansing the pole’s bark, to ease my pain.

The value of a storm in a moment of silence,
lays in the dust-fog of its maëlstrom shield;
a paradox story of the holy alliance
between a scarlet poppy, and its blood-soaked field.

03/11/2022