Rebirth

Rebirth: Tragedy has been your favorite genre— A fount of acts and scenes of wailing tears and excruciating scars punctured alive by so-called healers. That oozing wound paints the genre that trickles down the plot of your story. The parched lips, a speaking metaphor of your turgid deals In the hands of those wandering away with lots of your heart in their claws. I know the shivering voice hosted in the tender sheen skin of yours Is not a language of aging; a simulacrum of those who promise heaven but shuffle hell down your throat. I know your fate in the cruel, crooked hands. fueling you, of course to make your heart a Jericho. And swallow pain to yourself only to sing the dirge in love. I know love never resides here Neither has its chorus any memories of remembrance. I think it died. If love is dead, let me be the raising prophet. Let me tender this desert back to Eden, where nature plume and sing again.