Wraught

I swear
I heard the spilled blood deliver a homily
When the faces hung, white, like eidolons, from the windows in my street.
They knew, and would not tell.
Perjurors- all of them, barrel-chested from the curses they encased. 

And then, the sun rose.
We walked a hundred dehydrated miles to nowhere, our skins on fire with the hope of contact.
Grief crawled inside and lied about its motives. 
How sick we were of tasting bile and delivering some idealised message to ears that would not, could not hear.

We were the dawn
Not long before, we spoke as flames that leapt from gaping mouths, and swept new minds under a blanket of direction.

And then we hit an intersection

and waited for the hearse to take us home.