Catechism

A fallow season a time of trivial hungers that gnawed like a hypocrites prayer. It was a Wednesday, or one of those days, with sorrow sewn into it like a prison blanket. He had been unlocked like a gull's beak, his cry screeched from decades of dust. “My ghost is in your body Beloved, no one sees our earth, the sunset and the ocean fall into each other this way. Death me in your moment my love.” An imago had surfaced, an image joined to something, he once passed through or touched, or noticed not with his eyes. Under his skin, he pours stars, black stars, bright stars the living and the dead are him. “Death me, as I stand, sit, or sleep, plant your prayers deep into my emptiness, drug my senses with yours, dance me with your insatiable desires, drag me up, drag me into this dazzling death by light.”