I dream,
Let me slumber, kind heart.
Stare into the fire,
Burn your eyes with the truth.
As a falling star turns to dust,
Dreamers will awake
To the sound of an ending world.

I cry,
Sing to me, minstrel.
A tear will flood this barren land
Our hearts have run dry of love.
Listen as the sisterhood prays,
Shouting out to the gods
That forgot us.

I crawl,
In the dark, take me.
These wounds have turned septic,
With the poison in our veins.
Read my lips as I sing of a battle,
A page out of an endless book,
Written with the sins we bled.

I forget,*
Enlighten me, lost soul.
Have the gates been closed,
Have we lost all hope?
Blood and dust,
Pain and misery,
Where have all the good men gone?

The only way to guarantee a 100% failure rate is not trying.

the crust on the bread we break
chafes the palm homely
as we twist the loaf of our repast
releasing the heat of hot embers
growling in the brick womb
of our rustic ovens...
crumbling aglow, after the dough
has risen like a Christ
to a crisp.
long after the yeast has spat hollows
in the flesh of our sour toast.
it burns unburdened
beneath a barren  grill, inconsolable.
croaking smoke and ash.
pitching cinders up the plume
Promethean.

it is the morning.

so our wolves will have
their rabbits
as our pendulums,
our mortality.

but the feast is not our bread...
it's the crumbs.