All aflame, here everyone is young.
He did repair but backwards.
Blame the parents. Mother’s incense,
Father’s flawed intentions.
He was an oceanic child, fresh
paper marked with age, heaped
stones to keep apart other waters.
A boy fallen from a tree,
a friend’s torn tongue
writhing in dirt, and he cried
how it once spat pearls.
Myths are books hidden in clothing.
We find hush in hymns. I run from You,
he sang, falling into the womb,
dreaming a wet wagon drove him
to plants to tear with his teeth
and swallow flowers into his guts.
There is nothing like the hungry
following a fragrance like a hint.
When you lose your faith,
prayer is all you have left.
All agreed he grieved well.
He meant to embrace the whole mess,
never rewrote the liturgy.
He lived within a building of himself.
His tongue never tired and his appearance
became endless water.
The precious don’t live long.
Maybe he asked for a taste.
at the end to repair the place.
There were no more children left to watch die.
Though I think he tried.
Eventually the smoke went out.
Poor Elisha, he was made a mystery
where one searches for another.
And who has not feared a falling leaf?