The shocks that flesh is heir to
is what rattled heaven,
Which snubbed candles on the altar by mortal dew,
and stirred the lusty lion out of the den.
The skin where wing meets shoulder,
Is what tore open;
Blood lined the crevices of molar,
and the fall from the clouds gave birth to revenge.
The disc of irises like a halo,
is what fire singed;
Now eyes are white as snow,
and no mind is hinged.
The beasts that fall dead like hail
is what disgusts nature the most;
Because she lost her ring in one’s entrails,
It bubbled and fumed in the messy molt.
The guilt that is the orbit, which the world spins upon,
is what crime feeds with her hand;
But if there was no orbit there, we could not have been born.
From where would renewal be secreted if guilt was not the world’s gland?
The history that is written by the victor,
It is what brews this sleepless, starry night.
The dead are cold and bitter,
The living only live in lava and lies.