What?

What?

'Tis not that daunted well worn path,
unholy listing,
secret laugh coughed into a saracens kerchief.

Nor is it the tartan merchant bejewelled and beloved of those disobedient charms,
peacock flurry of success full,
and will you not go t'it,
no, 'tis not even the grime filth worker dying near the begorged furnace,
ill, tortured, damaged.

So.

- And so, what is it?
What is that wet miraculous touch,
a feather dainty word full of the trembling priests quiet utterances,
incense beriddled, choir drugged?
So, what is that naked unannounced address?
(Base cross, scarred crescent, bloodied shamanic rite?)

More than -
sexual thrust,
violent lovers kiss,
burning passion of mothers smack,
gased fire - melting the crackling skin upon the childish chest.

No!
- 'Tis non other
than the angels call,
trumpet hill burning,
parting the night satanic from the day hell ridden,
forcing enemies to copulate, laughing in their vomit -
and their blood.

This is the one true sign,
seared eternally on tor raped grove,
keeping pace with ragged edged sword,
driven deep by puzzled pillaging wind - natural,
the green face in all its fatherly grimace.

But

...be not afeared
do not step back with immature frown,
do not look down at hurrying fingers,

Ask.

Speak

...to the one who wears the same amulet -
finger upon lip.

Then look again.

Look closer.

No,
closer.

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