Cloistered behind a veil of deepest dark.
Light blisters in her eyes, festering like a wound.
Building up a cascade of sorrow, lustful melancholy, aching for release.
It rages like Niagara into the depths below.
Pouring off ancient water-weathered stone,
Pale as the dead she mourns.
What should mark a single moment in life,
Dragging on for an unrepentant eternity.
In this everlasting moment, drenched in the evidence of her weeping,
A pair of opulent ashen wings descend upon her frail form.
A seraph descends upon that royal, crowned forlorn.
None shall understand the joys her sorrows contain,
for even though there is one death, life in paradise is eternal.
She and her peoples, oppressed under one standard borne by eagles.
Glorious creatures of the winds, she is prey to their razor talons.
Seven daggers that ache of longing pierce her breast, oh what trials the Lord bestows.
Even his handmaiden cannot escape these pains that consummate the saints.
For three odd centuries, many that testify to grace perish.
For account of the eagle pecking at their eyes and scratching at their flesh.
Tortured and humiliated, never beaten down.
Though tears rain before the first fall, she wept for the many to come.
Even when that ray of light came to coronate, the corners of her eyes were still moist with sympathetic affliction.
Up over that yonder peak, angels' tears kiss hallowed ground.
Into the side of that cliff, a parish of monks had carved their homes.
A monastery suspended over clouds, diligently those anchorites honed their skills.
Somehow, in air so thin, Withered hands carve miraculous statues.
Upon the faintest touch, the kiss of the faithful, broken bones and carved skin healed.
The many martyrs that died comforted by their relics, innumerable beyond doubt.
It is not uncommon for statues of our Lady to cry for the hungry homeless groveling at her feet.
The blood of wounds eternally fresh, our Lord still hangs there in perpetual agony.
He died so that we may yet live, and his likeness is lovingly recreated by these fair brother.
Some wish for material things, of wealth and luxury.
Some wish for spiritual things, visions of heaven or the sounds of the harmonious creation playing a heavenly symphony.
Yet others still even wish to be enraptured up to the highest point,
So they may look down upon the beasts of creation, and pity them in their mindless repetition.
But pity not, good fellows, for God may yet love that Dove and his sorry cousin the Pigeon more than he loves you.
It is your pride that gets the best of you.
These monks who make statues above the world, know not the fates of their statues, nor even the price they fetch.
For they will never fall into sin of pride over such material things.
Countless reaching gray fingers,
A novel sensation lingers.
In this place, there are no thoughts,
Still as statues and just as content.
A mess of tangled limbs,
Some of plant and others of fleshm
Impossible to tell where one ends or begins.
Looping and lurking, these sickening things,
They hunger for life and love,
For thought and memory,
Like a bat out for blood.
A wish for life, but to no avail.
How can you tell from frozen faces?
Can you hear their frozen cries with deafened ears?
Pain echoes among open tombs.
Catacombs full of broken bones.
Withering flesh drips from shattered forms,
Pooling at your feet with a rancid stench.
The eternal death and decay of beings that know only rot,
Never has there been known a birth, yet the festering spreads.
Wet blood drips off that fresh blade
Painful debts won't ever be paid
The contents of my mind locked away
Do you intend a forceful raid?
Why insist we are the same
I'd rather not be docile or tame
Never saw the tears washed away by the rain
Dark storms I'd rather not trap you in
Shut it down before it's too much
Batten down the hatches
All hands on deck
Your captain has fallen overboard
I'd rather not be here
Truthfully, I'd prefer not to be anywhere
I don't want to see you where I'm going
You've got a life to live
I have nothing but disappointed faces
All these memories haunting familiar places
The space is new but still I see them
Under a dark moon
The way she cries is perfect
Hollow drops fall down
Alligator tears
Purely dishonest attempt
At deceiving us
Who could forget it?
Many unsavory views
A tiger in wait
Are we the prey or
Are we the hunters stalking
No one can tell now