Black ink and sunbeams poetry

Exile,

vitiate, having fled the

Red-caps in the streets,

bury your poems, a flower,

by the roadside

a revival, swelling,

came, masked in the twilight,

the faithful, preaching love,

nailed she who was once

the sum of your world to a cross

and called it good

fury, impotent,

set, a tattoo on the skin

between your shoulders,

grief, like God residing over

the ephemeral echo of Babel

cares not as to why it is you

and not she who remains,

poured out before

the teeth of fate