Cries are no Song

I shall flower beyond my body

blossoms of devils, sprouts of doubt,

towards the sky of endless thought

tear as I climb, branch out,

till I scrape the soles of heaven

a jester named 'hours'

I speak of and about.

"Dull within me, sharpen beyond,

I crave colours bleeding through the fog, 

bed by water, seat by pond,

weight of air, home by log."

Dare ask, your tongue shall be slit,

and God yawns, and the day indifferent,

and the ground hears not the perished but you weep,

"You are made how you ought,

you are put where you fit"

and he laughs in war and spring, and so do I

but in heart only,

I feign displeasure and thieve of it,

I pack the sorrows I brought

and descend until precious dawn of earth greets me humble,

glorious, the laugh of lord burns in my pocket-

"By the gates 'truth' will be gone, 

illusion shan't comfort no long,

death is no glory, cries are no song,

agony is no honour, blood is no gold, 

oh world, for he won't and it pains,

behold, behold, behold!"

-In the meek soil of life I tuck a part

for the newborn sparrows and whatnot,

remain the hot coals, the rough grains,

the sentience, the torn veins,

the fruit of knowledge rot my heart.