Resurrection

The cold gates of the blazing seventh circle again open for one before another, The mouths of the ground remain ajar to snatch before heaven has barely given; While the wind still thirsts for his breath. As far as prayers go, I like mine hushed, with my lips barely begging to be seen. I tuck my tongue underneath my tongue, and play true to the church mouse; my hands at soldier’s attention. Yet still, I would parody a pose of praying mantis and wail a thousand tongues If a thousand tongues could speak Ashes and dust back to flesh.