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.
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