at fault

The enduring myth of Heaven

It rides 

On a hum

Of those whole build the Kingdom of solitude in kind and form

And angels, 

Who are their rivals?

But nostalgic sympathy 

The outstretched land 

Where the unconscious wept 

They beg,

“Providence is a valley”

Grace

Seasoned with salt

Your wounds 

Burned into my palms 

Blood wasted in libation 

Stomped

It lies fallow 

To weep

Are those birds words 

Lamentations 

Wearing the poetic crown 

Broken by grieving