There's once a youth, terrified with birdcage

without any bird to fly, prayers lacking with

folded knee, undead who must be laying

without any shirt, merely matching collars

looking like for faithful dog to guard, near the fire

shifted post, wait for once again: pause, breath

into the breather, thirsty souls kept using the

funnel, perhaps it's how the years gone by

in a flowery branch, prison in daylight, liberating

in night, these volumes speak louder but all faded

and gone, clasped with adorned jewel, of those

tiny portrait, shining bright, speaking to your souls—

the moon is down, all melted in startling waxes

& waves, wages of splendid flashing rod:

If I'd seen any power so high,

it's a calling of suppressing grace,

while I'm trembling with tearful gaze.

— 30th September, 2023