Written by: Anthony Rodrigues

I speak of the desolate
of an ending where there is no God,
or beacon or harbor.

of the pure and deserted
who sit mute and stare
at lights as cold as moons..

who rests in wire cradles,
who's angels only glare,
who's place in limbo is as marked as a mountain.

I speak of hollow halls,
of the spectral sadists
who gleam at the sores and palsies..

of the purgatorial stints
that envelope
the restless and weary..

that starve the sun
with rendering and reckoning,
who clothe the lost with wax and pallor.

I speak of the lower birds
pitch-black and circling,
the pine lottery,the gaunt judge.

There is an echo
in the vacuous prayer closet-
A stone and stern remainder..

an eternity,it seems..