My skull cracks open at the eye lids,
as the light pools across the morning.

And Heaven is not peaceful, but spiraled, turbalent:
as ivory continents drift, aimlessly, about the hollow firmament.

They foam and twist, and I ask again,
for uneven patience.

My shoulder blades bend, I cannot pray, so I ask again:
for seven severed seraphs wings,

each outstretched against the dawns edges folding in.
My cracked hands hold equal parts water and oxygen,

though I'm still unsure which is the more transparent,
each is fleeting, and will not be cupped,

and will not be pressed, drawn into, dry desert lips.
I shall not pray, so I ask again:

for pale landscapes to be first outlined, then colored in.
The light and the distance,

the unaswered question,
the curious reply of morning,

as all the world bleeds out from my eye lids.