patchworked skies born of intellect and a gnawing dread that articulates the distances between oneself and the dark moon with space, that ancient tune

sometimes I am alone in this alternative dimension
where the holes in the sky foreshadow our dark ascension
in a serial flaw of reductionist materialism paired with
the vespers of an irrational spirituality
because i've been flown into the miasma of broken images
that I patched together using the universe as my template
and the serious guardians of secrets lie about even the most
banal ways to put your life back together when you're bleeding
in the violet heather and there is always something to hold
on to that burdens you with weights and glue, that says
let us remember why we are anchored to earth but no
one ever can because its not clear if it is for the good
of the gravity of our lives or solely for our comfort.

let the machines win their supplely stupid game where all
the church steeples mechanize the spirit's refrains of
ghostly demonstrations enslaved in the wordly buttressed tradition
of damaging rituals consisting of rolling on the tile floor
with distances between outstreatched hands holding rosaries
like the instruments of black witches burnt not by man but
by the eloquent gesticulations of a vengeful Pan who with
the seeds of night blew all the sparks into fires forming

lights held in the cracks of the catacombs that snake in between
our favorite buildings with corpses resting in thick tallow beneath
the blankets of cobwebs, with ancient clergy tending to the wounds
of death like doctors drinking volatile spirits for the numbness
ingrown with surgery's butchering war upon the catalysts of our
inner dominion.

and I am listening to the radio while trying to be polite,
I'm crying wine tears in the ancient night
and no one seems to burn from this longing,
it's not a fear, a flight, or a fight
but just some simple loss of light
that burns us up with the dark engines of inquisition
finished with flags that dragged their blood
across the horizon during national twilight
and kept our artistry from fully forming.

i'm on a ledge seeking the edge of endings fully kept
beneath our dark dreams within the cold night billowing with
ice wind beneath the candled moon and speaking with a mandolin's
frail rapid tune about how even the most forlorn of us are in need of warnings
from simple birds and difficult words that grace our sequined sky
with life's angel verbs and call us down from our mountains with
the force of turbulent emotions storming like vibrant explosions,

leave your disease and breathe ginger whispers instead,
leave your hated street and follow the streetlights to their end
where they become set in shallow sky with the most ancient of lights
called starshine locked within the veldt of space's shadow revealing
asterisms rather than some fabeled bull's inarticulated head,
you're made to rest with strength upon the hills of troubled states
you're made to leave into the forests where they greet you with rifle fire
instead of lips and flowers softly forming the ends of desires storming.