Abyss and Stigmata

The sound of birds
chirping,
nervous feather music,
cavorting
in a thorny bush,
under a cloud-choked sky,
reminded me
of the dark places in the hidden
heart of the world,
caves
where passionless mysteries,
ageless and deep,
paint shadows
on the wet subconscious
of the sleeping masses,
alienated
hive-mind artifacts
in mobile flesh suits.

This is a.................This is cold............Dying for...........
dark tomorrow.......rain held aloft.......my sins, singing.....

The Song of Wings rapidly beating
molasses air stirs memory.
How like a sleeping
predator
wakened too soon;
the penny offered for my thoughts
is scarred, two-faced, and
under the shadow of a stone crucifix,
atop a crumbling church
with no congregation,
I feel the nicks and dents
decorating the dirty metal surface.

I never knew
that I would
bleed
in hot spurts
timed
to the beats
of a blind
hummingbird's
heart.