When they came, they came in droves
with their writhing skin under tattered clothes.
They didn't ask, they didn't know
the board and book called them forth.
Petrine crosses nailed above the door, crucified, held cruciform, the soul-skin stretched like a drying pelt.
Their jaws clicking, dry, agape
as they looked around
trying to disseminate the space they found through foggy death clouded senses, the things they recognized, like stars through the small end of a telescopic lens.
We tried to ask and they tried to answer but all communication was prevented by static from a broken radio, distorted voices drunk and angry.
They appeared in wavy lines and warring spots, shadows and balls of light flashing in and out held only by encanted words and mal-intent.
Now they were tethered,
naked and alone
as we haunted their deaths
with unfathomable questions and ignorant persistence.
YOU ARE READING
Confusion in Underground Clouds
PoetryThis is a collection of assorted poems, detailing one consciousness extending and swirling into another, and another, and another.
