Black Oak

Without soul I’d die; and deep the soul’s cry; and verse the

Heart: our Father’s eye; for deep the rift, the kiss of death;

And deep the touch, our Father’s breath; and hear our cries,

A wall of ghosts; and thirst our pain, the spirit’s pulse; and

Found – my love, a pool of prayers: a bleeding hex: the vex

Of flares; and cry – my flame, a storm of wings; and torn –

My thoughts, a vault of screams; and fly – her pain, a phantom

Womb; and die – my light, a living tomb; for mystic wings,

A cryptic death; and cultic love, a mystic breath; and soul to

Live, the gift to fly; and core to fall, a thirst to rise; and

Scripted pain, a need to grow: a verse to feel, a method slow;

For spirit burns, a fervent drench; and sun to soul, a burning

Wrench; and heart to flight, the soul to sing: the Ghost to

Speak: the Lord to dream.