God, a lame Christ pose,
a martyr dressed
like beryl blue
In plaster molds
how could anyone love
a voice.
Are these revnants
so make believe?
a miraculous verbatim-something
echos from the lips
of deities, that we revel
in their sloth-colored words
In our sleep, we suggest
that within the virulent hives
feathered rats and gallow birds
weave tears above our dream clouds
and mourn our dying seconds
we mistake their feathers for tears
lost in their flight
opposite of our direction.
Honorable mention
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