The Frogs Would Say

Such blood and brine, the bone of script, and faith to tears, a
Sullen crypt. The hearth of flame, my soaring soul, a bleeding
Wound, the ache of stone. My cypress drum, the pulse of
Light, the drops of dew, the pain of life. And heart to soul,
The truth of flame, adrift the dead, and mortal shame. But oak
To scar, an empty vase, the ink of love, a mystic face. And
Blood to faith, the sea of death, the pulse of fear, a fragile
Breath.

Plus the tide, a widow’s grief, a vulture’s pride, a bleeding creek.
And light to soul, the graven dead, the ark of light, the vision
Red. But hope to pain, the prayer is sung, aloft the clouds, and
Nigh the sun. And trumpet flare, the sound of war, the demon
Died, and fled the core. Thus the future, a velvet grey, a touch
Of bliss, the frogs would say.