Call us up In poorest sentiment, For we are mere innocents With our chandeliers high above Our burrowed brow. We glow as it, Startled in newness, Lifelike in our short temptations, For infanthood is a pleasantness To our weakness. You are God, With His face a set of thorns, To His son. Two eyes, drops of beryl, With a mouth a stripe of paint. She is the world, Crawling on its shoulders. She stains the world, Seeking to dismantle A man, with his fertile dagger. Into flesh, Past the mesh, Clawing at spite, Giving into height Of a womb with scarlet entrenched. Her love, Like a mother without cheeks To kiss. Her mouth, sown shut with wire, For she does not ever smile. A pain To be called up From the shores of past tapestries Showing the lakes and riverbanks With the fires upon lustful oils.