MH (10/13/1990 / )

Faith Bows At The Arms

Faith bows at the arms, from the frost on my tongue,

and the bright-burning flame in my lungs;

I thought I would become the chosen One.

At my feet, your knives wound my flesh,

tripping me over with ropes

in hopes to hang me dry.

Passed the fire, my corpse is hung,

with ribbons in my hair and glitter everywhere;

at most, my thirst is quenched from your 'kind-hearted' offering.

I watch you drape your sacrifice in polished paper;

did you assume I would recovered?

And when the earth is cluttered, where do you find me?

Away at sea to dance on shores, for more there is that I could never forgive.

Now I begin to decay in a brown, spotted skirt

and I'm tossed to the ground,

only to convene my maker.

And when I'm passed about to the undertaker's lair,

won't you consider what you whispered to me?

This kiss of death is a sour Judas-oh betrays me with hungry eyes!

What glares, a Cyrano-face? I am blind to critics and their ways.

And we fall, and they fall

like rusty pins to a dainty-bare foot;

It wasn't the fault of whom you thought it would be-

it's the nature you perceive

as I rot to harvest

a new seed.

I drift to a dark state, and awaken cold and bright-eyed.

The skies open to a rebirth my kind.

Inside I burst, the guts expel to a growth,

and my eyes unwrap to a new dawn.

It has begun, my novel child; speak to me with clean lips.

Oh, crease and part that fleshy kiss.

Tell me what you miss about my daunting range.

And these dreams believe in certainty,

walking on searing coals, to warm the bitter souls.

Forgo the tale is told; hung from a imperceptible aura.

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