Friday, March 18, 2022

Mania

Crucifying on Tarot's Celtic cross,
the Devil tells me, "Scorpio, you've stung
your head with winged visions from the eyelids
of the dead." A kaleidoscope flutters

terror through me: a blood sun sets on this
evil Calvary, where no mourners wail,
and stock-still leaves on dormant trees hiss,
"Eli, Eli lama sabachthani."

The earth is sound. No veil is torn. The saints
sleep soundly; their graves unborn. I wake
to waking, and wish my waking done. Sleep
escapes me, and I wish my visions done.


2 comments:

  1. I thought, "let's check out Kyle's blog for old time's sake" and fuck yes you're still updating it!! Best surprise I could have asked for!

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