by J.A. Von Schinzel - Reynolds

Mourn not, fallen one

Maiden of broken hand fasts

Persephone amongst the ruins of an Indian Summer

Come back from the catacombs

own the Eternal Summer instead

I think of praying the rosary for you

but I never do it

For you, who threatened to be the first to be my last and mean it

Now I am absolved to find simplicity and contentment

in the aftermath of the apocalypse of my heart.

Vodu Papa

Lying dormant to the world,

 the sleeping god of giants

With hands entrapped in mountains

awaits the plucking

Of the Dove of the Eucharist

 from the nest that it has made in his hair

Tormented in a restful sleep of ages,

 with only dreams left of what is fair

Sleeping god wasting in human flesh,

not wishing to be a god of lust and human hate

A god of flawed logic

Reaching for happiness touching pain

He awakens

He remembers

Being so tall

He stands

Unafraid this time

That no one is big enough to catch him should he fall

Trapped somewhere in time,

the assassin still waits.

The lightning will strike again and again,

shaking the Earth

And all upon it

and only you can not forget

To keep moving

even though we are trapped somewhere in time

And time, like the assassin sent through it,

is always on my side.

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