begin:

bodies fill the air

like the hands of

the strangled. they

lower themselves down

slow, eternal, crushing

the bones of the old

gods. a chalice bleeds

over the rim because

they cannot and rivers

run red with wine and

not salvation. in a world

where martyrs are

worshipped more than

heroes they gather like

disease. they are just

following orders. with

them comes flame that

swallows the words of

god's men, devours the

body whole. feathers are

light on your own skin. a

glowing wing. a man

kneeling, unclean like the

scorched earth. chests

ache with cravings to

sink under their swords

as the sky collapses to

the dirt, brought on by

their downswing. they bring

heaven to earth for the

saints who are already

dead. i watch my ancestors

exhale golden light and my

name does not pass their lips.

light caresses tear at my skin,

and i am taught holiness.

there are no halos. there

is no peace. (in death

there is a difference.)

"you are hungry for revelation,"

they whisper. i am starving. i

am.