Black ink and sunbeams poetry

Heat-haze clinging,
the asphalt beneath
your feet,
having run the length of Hell,
buries the day

orb-spinner,
shadow-sung,
our crescent-beaked masters,
casting out their nets
in greed,
reel in that which was
once our treasure,
paid in full, and
castigated for
it’s mercy

You,
having run the length of hell,
strung up before the butchers,
and castigated for your mercy
yet retain your mercy,
you,
white-gloved
in the corner of my page,
anointed, as
Samson before Dagon,
lay yourself down,
in Zorah,
beyond their mercy,
beyond your
hate