Lacquer among our lilacs, rose campion among my fern, the poison lily on the lake as light as the hue of a blonde lioness in winter, the sword, flames and the Baptist. The pale sparrow and brown thrasher suffer a psychic remembrance in the plague-ridden countryside where the tall trees slew, the counterfeit mosques planted like horrible erect abominations and perverted outcrops in the clay, unholy shrines to a sky full of dead Gods and demons, ravenous insects and the corrupt. Our old rugged gravestones trampled, broken and lay dead like Saints in the rubble, a crown and a cross, the spirals and minarets as obscene as the smut spoken within the walls of Hell, the belly of the crescent and the syrupy blood of the smoky topaz colored snake.
Reddened and bruised bronze clots of yesterday, the ancient storm and church starting to become angry in the background, the wooden cellar staircase looks like a painting, a Goya master-work or violent memory, thine ghost of a murdered bird, hazy-lined silhouette and sad falling dust diamonds in the murky stained glass window, Appalachian olive orchards and mother of sighs, mother of tears, mother of darkness, gentle as a rock-dove and ferocious as a feline under a red maple, the alms and embers of a new jezebel, new cobblestones and slick walk-ways for the passer-bys, the rushing gasp of breath and sincere cusp and calm before the war, the delicate souls of the unclean baptized in dirty water.