Vitriol Crowned In Retaliation
Strung high are the martyrs
Oh, how their crippled feet, they steal the sun
Their cause, noble, it's worthy
So I gift them a death on their cross
I paint them in His tongue's fire -
Breathe deeply of their fleeing spirits
Who billow from silenced mouths
The smoke from flesh that coils in service of the serpent who bore them
- while their lake takes in familiar babes
Their children, they breathe her heavy air
Blue as the face that cloaks them, lost as the water's mercy
They will know only her frigid arms
Delicate stones denied rest
Limp, in the heavy breast of her depth
I watched from across a freshly conquered sea as he placed a crown of retaliation upon the head of your country
There were holes burned against a smoldering curtain -
They resembled cathedrals and homes
Shelter and worship cut from the fire of the sky
(What a marvel! What a righteous blaze! . . .)
- and into their absence did its people collapse
(. . . to witness a culture's story fold into the gravity of its own erasure.)