December 15, 2011
It was the renaissance wars
when the housetops started strolling by me
and the nets were filled with hundreds of
blind wasps and sickly bees.
And the water. It gobbled us up like
krill at the head of the whale,
surging in a futile display
of crack-breaking, spin snapping
Followed by the whole ingestion of
our little significant souls, which lather and
become rinsed in a windy extrapolation
like leaves torn from mothers' arms
and sent to the farthest depths of our escape.
And when the water came in,
blackly putrid, scentless apparition,
by the nameless execution we sent
you to and prayed by the death-ingesters
that they'd find peace for you.
As we lay upon melted rooftops
topped with moulded moss and
soft cactus branches, we whispered
chilled moony nights, ducking as the monster
made his rounds through our cobble-stoned
for we saw none else to consume
but he smelled us in our filth
all the same.
We prayed for the dead to come
excavate us from beneath this sandy
pit of sediment-ed cliff side,
and we prayed and prayed
until our bones remained
in fossilized holy constraint.
We dried in the sun,
we sank in the water,
but you wouldn't have it,
hollering hell and heaven
for the fortress sent angels,
who should grab our hands and
pull us clean of this sinking Atlantis,
and instead we flew, higher than we'd
ever seen; we were angels,
caught in the sick, hot hand of that dark
shadow creature, but we sang the same,
as he ate us up, like a greedy phagocyte.
And we sang and sang
as heaven threw us up and under
their tumultuous grasp,
we fell into the darkness.