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Psalm 22

  I trust you lord For your shadow girds the earth, gives measure to the deep. I cannot see, I cannot hear, the screaming bells cast searing heat, a corona hot and bittersweet carves temple grounds in my deceit. A viper does not know the sky, apart from soft-edged silhouettes that crawl along the ground, reflections of penumbral actors, changing without sound. So too are we confined to dust, our avarice a painting brush, and as we slither and mistrust, leaving naught but bones upon the ground. The teeth of hounds grapple with my spirit, rending silver-tinted melodies across the black expanse. Towers claw towards the heavens like fingers on the deserts hand, from windows high and balconies grand, the song of my tribulations echo in palaces of sand. “May God bless you. May he whisk you from this fate! Like a Zephyr blows a field of wheat, your God is like a quaff of wine that dries the tongue in desert heat” The lords of towers tall and white arrogantly mock the King of praise and pr...
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  Set alone in dusty antinomy, frameless thoughts on hollow walls Echoing heartache quenched on a canvas the world sighs and tiringly recalls. The air is heavy and damp with melancholy, an aching parade of practiced retreat. The smoke hides the ceiling, feet nailed to the floor, the smell of tobacco and petrichor grief.   Eyes flutter down at an opera in motion while the voltage is humming with practiced devotion Their verdant cascades tell of wary enrapture, methodical soothsaying, each chord a divulgence. Each revelation of bloody construction, the price is too dear and the storefront is shuttered. Quickening breath tearing rifts in the gutters, the cascading deluge of rhythmless clutter, his hand grips his chest, the impasse is sputtered, to die on a leash or escape unencumbered? Fine strands of silver more precious than profit run racetracks for tears as they fall from his face The tune reassembles to something domestic, placid antinomy and conscripted ...
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Foundation

 From whence came grace but upon the toil of His majestic hand. The seat of power and sovereign clarity, salient rivers who brook no doubt. No faithless men to bear the standard, pray that we may do without,   The ravens feasting on those whose wages built houses on the sand
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Procura's Nightmare

On the eve of silver doubt, A bride stirs in her sleep. Restless visions bar the gate and so she weeps Solace stolen, for death’s last rout. Fortress walls though tall and stout, The winding smoke, they cannot keep Amythyst roiling, sweltering heat, Her nightmares drown her somber shout   Grinding wheels, a sea of sparks The watchmen do not blow their horns On lilac cumulus she embarks “Have nothing to do with him!” she forewarns. But like the cove with hidden shoal, The eve of silver doubt endures, the Savior's amaranthine veil is torn.  
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