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.
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