In the books, such apostles, bones are them. God selects His own, wooden crosses on the water, the mountains melt like red-royal wax, nervous lanterns in the silver-forest, an army of demons surrounding their pit watch me every night, sitting in darkness, the small ones look like birds on the ground eating the flesh of Kings, they swarm like Springtime under the drowsy stars, tiny Bishops blackened by the pitter-patter sprinkles of blue-mechanical rain, a dock dotted with globes of teardrops, I swim as graceful as a mute swan in summer on a boiling lake, something death cannot undo.