| «Scribe quickly your name, and stay to the right. |
| Your script is curved
|
| It’s inclination hooks and spurts as if rushed to the end
|
| We’ll see… This is only a glimpse. |
| Still, you’ve kept your head down
|
| Where are you hiding? |
| And are you weak? |
| Are you afraid?
|
| Did you creep each step aghast, skirting shadows, or is it what I seek?»
|
| You called to pound the door with pointed hand, but we would burn the house
|
| We barred the doors with guilt and bone, still we might burn the house
|
| We would burn this house of ill regard. |
| Cathedral eyes were sewn to bind
|
| You won’t storm the house. |
| We would burn the house
|
| My temple, I’ve mortared lock and key alike. |
| All’s buried, naught to find
|
| What am I now, torn in two? |
| The illusion of me becomes and confronts you
|
| What am I, split in two? |
| What’s left of me will retreat from this empty
|
| knowledge
|
| We’ll weed out what we don’t know
|
| I’ve cut my loss and severed a thought from mind
|
| It plummets like a stone, and glaring back from depths to heights,
|
| will torch the night. |
| Retreat from this empty knowledge. |
| Weed out what we
|
| don’t know
|
| Retreat from this broken logic
|
| Lost in what we do not know, we’ll weed out what we don’t know
|
| The road that lay forward was paved with my fears. |
| I tore at the open floor
|
| I scurried away, and down. |
| Call out to the open floor
|
| Call out to the words that bind us whole. |
| Call out from the weighted floor
|
| Call out to the guards before us all. |
| Call out to the way
|
| The wound was cauterized. |
| Burn my way and throw me off to the gate
|
| Come fire. |
| Come flame. |
| Come home. |
| Burn my way. |
| These days were a waste
|
| Come fire. |
| Come flame. |
| The weight of a sin’s thick fog. |
| Come fire. |
| Come flame
|
| Burn my way. |
| And after all these words I couldn’t break away from its hold
|
| Weed out what we don’t know
|
| Shadows are fading. |
| The burnt walls are crumbling
|
| The old guard is changing. |
| We won’t look down, where we’ve aimed for
|
| Not before my eyes, but hidden behind my back, and grasped with blood in claw
|
| My soul possessions are scant. |
| Withdraw your hands. |
| I’ve set my share alight
|
| What’s beneath this? |
| The husk is wrapped; |
| its form flawed
|
| We’ll pry the fingers back each bone from bone, all ashen, crumbled away
|
| False. |
| The rest is soot and blown off. |
| We won’t wait. |
| Fall
|
| What we’ve come digging for is dead and cold
|
| We couldn’t wait for the beatings |