By straining tongues
To speak your name in their light.
I am a trumpet too far
In the orchestra, to recite my words.
Yet, my tears flow as ebony rain,
Washing clouds above my head.
Do you feel their sting?
Your corpse is still a rose
In my pupil.
With eclipse to my mind.
Blackness speaks through my words
As the light is too white
To heal the loathing.
Their syllables float the birds
Into Heaven’s cradle.
I call upon the angel closest,
Though she is too silent.
Her lips parched by missing kisses,
Her hair kempt by the priests and their
How could God love more than me?
How could He?