a weeping vein, like this a fire
moves in flame through fractured dreams;
a spider spins them threadbare at the seams
in the place where trembling breaths expire.
by a blind birds loom composed of sight,
the sobbing spirits rest
in crooked stance, their talons cracked and worn
they mend the filament
and from their needle tongue is born
a firmament of song
-gold linen for the guest.
by that holy page engulfed in flame,
tome of death march, scourge and sin,
graveless wraiths collect blood from a throat
with the tenderness and requital of satiated calves
for centuries gone sapless and unfed, they float,
windswept of whispers, bathed in red
pausing first to taste its sound they dip their fingers in
writing frenzied on the smoking text:
at last we have a name.
at last we shall be dead.