Rising... by Theo Ray
A scornful heart that wills to sing.
—Sirens came to me.
—A frozen riverbed.
—Jagged mountains
like the bottom front row
of teeth.
O wild madness of a pale
moon, as white as paper skin.
Darwin’s breath fading.
Sweet Canabas incense rising
to the temple’s ceiling.
O cast your sorrows millennial
son, to the bright feet of
The Arch Angel Michael.
O thy lantern is dim,
the baptism of sunlight
caresses your forehead,
and the cross of flames upon your
weary shoulders,
as the elder of a caravan,
through the white burning sands
—as the crown awaits your unending
symphony of triumph.
—Your humble lot cast among kings,
—may the armor of your discontent
uncoil, and fall to the dust,
as the valleys blossom full...
while the sweet nectars bloom.
