Baptized to be a martyr
of sour lyricism, I am
immolated to the lavish denial.
Inconceivable,
waiting for mid- September,
hunting season is open,
here in the limbo of jade falls
I’m a prayer of not allowed harmonies.
No use in trying to exalt
every single bit of black twinkle.
Enviable,
devoted to light,
the glaze rainbow prays,
shocked by the fantasy
of so much epic adventures,
in which, repentant,
feeling terrifically safe.