Tomb of the Ultimately Unknown

I have never heard the cries
Of a bare and beaten Youth
For, I am far too soft and unprepared,
I'm told,
To hold that blood capsule of Truth
Inside the center
Of a Virgin palm

Yet, still
I feel
His fuzzy head, there
Cradled in my arm
Inviting Him to thieve the warmth from me,
In servitude;
Entreating Him to suck the light of life within my breast,
Which hollows more each second
Following the end
To gasping breaths
In turn, the blade invading my own chest
With reverent
Remembrance

Brine, it is the wine
I am but the chalice
Dread, it is the bread
Fuzzy, green inside my womb;
The malice

Although,
This feud, this horror, is not tactile
I have only viewed the war through futile
Pink, plastic binoculars
With roseate-tinged lens
Magnificent!
Their lack of meaningful
Magnification
Oh, Our damned nation!
Witnesses
Standing by to each and every
Haunting,
Reminiscent coronation
We are too magnanimous!

I've been thankful
I was not delivered
To this rotting earth;
A gun sewn into the carnation,
Silken lining of my flesh
Not rigid,
Stark
As flesh is made to be in
Passion

Fruit will never answer from the soil
Irrigated with the cardinal water
The crops dusted with blood of Children
Gristle of Man
Degraded to tallow
Their bristle braided into wick
We light the Candle
Fan the fire with our palms,
The wounds,
That, which we cannot lick

Their waxy faces
Lifted bodies
Sallow,
Hallowed,
Statuesque
But, in the flames
They're dispossessed
They deliquesce
To nothingness

A miracle is life
The elegy
Is not so eloquently lyrical
Each pure manifestation;
Made to wither or be plucked, at random
Plagued by infestation

The red bells
Roll in on themselves
The toll is for whomever
We are All
The Slaves
The Blind
The End

Virgins can't be saved, forever