we start
by molding the dusts
left in us into stones
and throwing it at nothing
hoping it darts men
in pinnacles of shredded shadows
who call men to glory
with melodies
from the cathedral of ghosts.
there is a revival of assembled bedlams
filing into bodies that now know
that peace is a silent man
having prayers in the throat of men
with supplications of the living
who speak in tongues of blood,
of bones,
of fleshes,
which covers the altar of dirges
where burning men are incense
finding salvation
in the congregation of the dead—
a miracle of roaming spirits.
dead men
now learn the language of silence
with their maggoty intestines—
a way of communicating with rots,
so,
we run into canal of gone spirits
to draw life on the tears of scars
where we’re colours of fire
on the face of cuts and lusts
while an ash is a room in our bellies,
we have many rooms.
the wind
is a home
of naked children
chasing what they do not see
but feel its wings under their skins:
this is how we run into bodies
with flowing thorns of blood.
staying in the wind
is keeping these memories
under one’s feet
and setting it upon fire
which knows the texture of stagnant rivers
and how tears drown seas
in faceless things.
Source: Enigmatic Global Concept