hopespringseternal

The plot of our life sweats in the dark like a face 
the mystery of childbirth, of childhood itself 
grave visitations 
what is it that calls to us? 
why must we pray screaming? 
why must not death be redefined? 
we shut our eyes we stretch out our arms 
and whirl on a pane of glass 
an afixiation a fix on anything the line of life the limb of a tree 
the hands of he and the promise that she is blessed among women.

Oh God... I fell you.