Strung by a garland of imposing elegance.
She was silenced by the deep and solidifying nature of indifferent faces that carry his faith.
But, now that they have killed the morning—they can strip the trees of their voices.
As we all have stolen voices that are swayed by their crystal bibles who trespass and scathe our bodies bare.
Disclosing the window of my life to a stranger so bleak-that they navigate through the existence of all intruding shapes.
Listening, I hear my blown hair shriek and suffocate a crying owl whose hunger betrayed my saints at bay.
The hands of a priest stand folded in front of me—yet stretch over rooftops expelling a slaughtering taste of future existence as all my sinful secrets lurk and thicken with the mention of prospects—-
My teardrops stand still and the life of all of my hearts grow steady, undaunted by the ills of modern pain.