The Immolation

I find myself waiting for a sign, from
any gods still lingering, any that
still hang on:
hiding in secret corners,
beneath our torn atmosphere.
Nobody but they are listening to my refrain:
it is in code, a series of dashes,
an elipsis, a kiss.
And the shouts and screams from
long dead pilots, bouncing prayers,
lost voices from the past, they join mine
in the barren, absorbing tempest of the sky.

This could be, a sacrament , an illuminated script.
Relics in a gilt chest, metal ribbed.
We could be cave paintings, mysterious, timeless:
there is no end to all the maybes.
But will it, will it?
My eyes are endless, they reach
into history, to the far, far edge of the universe.
But even they are unable.
There could be a fortune here,
and gypsy, teach me my future.
Take me with you, to the end of the world,
and I will promise a heart, consecrated,
indelible; a burnt offering.