Rutilant Orisons

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Poignant with your
rhetorical devices,
you spin velvet spools
twice around your tongue.

Threading splinters
into sinners,
blood flows out from streams of consciousness.

Invariably for you,
regret is served as dinner,
lacking every scrap of
Ishtar
in each doubtful bite.

Right here
where you
kneel,
your feast cannot
go unseen.

By impartial imprisonment,
amidst church pews,
your prayers won’t
perish unheard.

When cathedral voices caress stained glass,
they’ll break open a new
revival.

Your afflictions shall pass:
constrict, then contract,
and become one with the
aureate gold
teardrops,
raining on your lap.

 

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