Realm of Thought

We pray: the joy of sorrow. We cry: the pain of joy. I feel a
Friend: she dies the night, a holy dove. I plead the Sun; and
Bleed the moon. How many candles; and how many stars?
Each a church, my flaming friend; and each a grace; but

One lukewarm: a pit of spittle; and one a torch, her soul to
Burn. I admire such grief: the depth of thought; and I value
Such pain: the gift of Christ; and qualify: a purple rose; and
Quantify: the wounds of God. My bleeding friend: here’s a
 
Church: and here’s a prayer: the faith of psalms. I reckon
Love, a telic quest; and ivy vines: a symbol torn. I drift: and
Paint the halls: what if joy: the only touch; and what if pain:
A foreign light?—growth would die: the sword of joy; and

Pain would flee: the realm of thought. Thus, the fruit, a telic
Quilt; and thus, the light—a stream of ghosts.