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writ in ink and ether
pools of phosphorescence trickle tearily,
upon hallowed strings of cylindrical orbit
called grace, upending cosmic severence.
to be gathered together like mockingbirds
upon wings reminiscent of small catechisms
where as a youth i was taught the "truth"
silently assumed assassination of imagination
articulate narratives both living and dead
in the stead of a sinner's unworthy blood
which flows sanguine or azure dependant
solely upon the veil of perspective viewed
through an errant lens magnifying perjury
disguised under a thinning blanket of hope
crosswise spun methodically with thread.
were they compassionate, loving displays
writ in ink and ether, an orbit called grace?
