Your quill into the ink bottle,
You write me to an ocean of
As the ink flows through the quill,
I open my mouth,
speaking the words forming on the page, my breath
from hope in my lungs.
as the bones rattle
joint – to – joint
into an organic outline of characters,
poised for entry into their story arc,
eyes widen as the tendonal transitions
the skeletal framework of Your prophetic narrative.
of my emotion warms their skins,
bodies awakening as blood
flush with stoic sentimentality.
before us. Again we collaborate, Your four winds bring breath from the
north, south, east and west
skies converging to create Your final poem draft
to the four corners of the earth.
coffee cup soffit
memory museum displays
gold highlighted words
sprout seeds from the muddied page
lotus flower blooms
yellow rose vessels
friendships reflect His glory
Pairs of hands grasp hands, mercy pulls into homestretch hesitation.
Our angels adjure us to flee annihilation, waiting our word.
The wind carries the shrieks and the stench of rotten eggs,
seeing fire sheets zigzag from heaven to the hell of burning flesh.
I feel my body crystallize into a burnished tomb,
window eyes being the last thing mirrored in horror.
Mind Lot’s wife.
still dead eyes in the back of your head
to the sulfur-soaked paper rag plain pillars.
Zombie salt figure statue
exhuming His remainders
into the mountains of culture,
melting the turbid icy snow pack.
Reanimating wadi water-washed hearts.
five beams search shoreline
light on the hooded sweatshirt
whispering her prayers
plantation owners hunt slaves
whispering prayers in kettles
two stacks of feathers
seagulls nitpicking struggle
no victories here
Redacting army steals the language.
Spirit grinds wheat words into form,
distills the boastful syntax
from thousands to hundreds,
the inner critic.
Desk lamp and radio
turn adjectives and adverbs
against each other and erase
the opposition of the blank page.