It seems like day to day
is page to page
of some grim novel.

And the broken bones
blend in as stones
of ivory in the pale cobble.

An institution there beneath my feet,
the underground for the deleted,
cloaked as ancient fossils…

In the black of the shadows, the truth still softly lurking,
remaining coiled, with primal scales that glisten silently like biotite mica,
illuminating enough light from its fragments to catch the attention of a few.
But the truth, in the dark, was too icy and apathetic to rise up when it was vital.

Now when I read the story I see pages where words are unwritten,
but the skulls in the stonework have steadily risen
up as pretty, young artifacts—now surveyed by human eye—
Finally unearthed, from their sadistic, abysmal prisons…
The truth can bring all things to the surface…

You're beautiful

Her heart leaked though sweat soaked pores hardening into
black fragmented biotite to hold her in the prison of her own piousness

Feldspar crystal kneecaps vine intertwining into the lost rock city
Rita was your lascivious sin worth stitching your soul with
Zizyphus Spina Christi to the barren waste lands of your repentance

He kissed you while standing in death's door with sickened veins
You grasped hold and pulled him back from the shadows of the valley
He loved you by the alter of your Father as you bled your tongue in silence

You vowed to lay with no other man than Him almighty
But your vow broke like straw in the sweet summer heat
Now your head remains bowed waiting for your soft breeze of forgiveness

As the ground shifts, as the wind blows
Your body shudders, slipping fragments of your nose, ears, arms, feet, *******, eyes, and fingers slide from you
As your lips crumble to rest upon your thigh
You cry out, vibrations leading to your demise.

Screaming for the ones who have forsaken, weeping for Him who has smited you by turning your soul to stone.

Though it all with in your eternal poignancy, and never ending rage

You're still magnificent.
I don't believe that shall come to pass.