The Curse is a Flame

It’s not by zeal, the broach of pain, the keel of Christ, the
Breach of flame. A psyche torn, the scorn of peace, a silent
Bomb, a scripted beast. And heart to grave, a cryptic tare,
A froward pang, the bane of prayer. My curse aflame, a subtle
Sight, to scrape the core, to soar the light. But cultic death, a
Storm of hertz, a phantom keen, a mystic birth. And depth the
Soul, a sacred flare, in spite of grief, and deep despair. Thus
The rapture, a biblic tear, a deer to mock, a light to fear.   

It’s not by zeal, the broach of pain, the keel of Christ, the
Breach of flame. And soul to plight, the night’s aflare, the demon
Fraught, to cast a snare. But light to heart, to grip the sun,
Despite the death, the Spirit won. And tomb to birth, the brine
Of blood, aloft the clouds, the myth of love. And torn
Aflame, the curse of life, despite the trials, and cryptic light.