atonement (or, a story for people who like to hold apologies)

We write words, letters really 

And the heartbeat rests at the foot of the brainstem 

Angels call on our dirty steps plagued with no ages of wonder

Wilds are crafted and unlikely to echo

The bright light of a morning flame remains horrifying & not a chariot of terrific stature

Guilt carries our laws

Blame came up and painted the rifles

In the honor of the first discourse 

Crumbs of horses

Made embroidered stories 

Steeped for too long

The code of conduct contained tea leave tithes 

And sanguine stains of their sullied spines 

Our linen garments lack repose, respite 

Retreating to the land of action 

To the healer’s house 

But at what cost to a cave of possibilities 

So the ear of pearls came collected 

Presented for a prorate class 

Standing aroused at their cut limbs and salvaged sorrows 

A whole testament of griefs 

A rumpled rug

Sun stained and 

Stroked by rain

A home to to sleepy pilgrims 

Whose bigs boats full of shadows hoped higher 

Ammunitions potential set for the heaven’s stars

But fell short of aim

Targets lost to waters’ edge 

Where, oh God

Do our castle motes find their fill