how could they
have made you
into flesh?
your bones
deserve dirt,
deep dug soil,
where your mind
can burn,
with all your memory.
when will the saints become,
a figure of love?
is it not time,
to turn grave lust
into stone?
my questions beckon
the call of heavenly bodies,
to wreck your mouth,
and bruise your bones,
but the dear terrain
don't move like that.
only black holes
can become,
ancient stars,
and lit reflection.
you are not that
black,
only burnt seeds,
grow on dry terrain.
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