Blood flows cool and thick like a sweet sap,
Words a toxic resin bursting through
Dry, aching lips which all but set a trap
For any innocent beast to fuel the fires.
With feet planted so firmly in the past
They take root, unable to stray away
From the fractured stained glass dreams
In the cathedral where Santiago prayed
To an absent, benevolent God beneath
The ancient Sycamore. And hooks held
Up a broken, ugly carved smile,
But only for a little while,
Before even those lips fell victim to the rain.
Perhaps there was treasure hidden—
A gold uptake among the many leaves.
But precious hates and precious hides,
And regret is a tangible disease.
And under the onslaught, a shield in worn,
And under the onslaught, the core dies away
To preserve, to persevere, for another winter.
And much is lost, much is just shorn
Away to preserve the aching, dead body.
But wait for spring, and it will be found
That life is still prosperous—
But burrowed deep into the ground.