mud and murder
persist
despite a heavy dislike
for both among most
who call themselves
children of men
and the children of God
have been told and
expect
not to see an end
to such things until
the dark ages give way
no, truly give way
to what is meant to come after
with the glory of my Father’s son
descending upon clouds
shot through with
prismatic glory
or perhaps just ordinary
sunlight
shimmering through a drizzling, autumn rain
the cold and wintry kind
that has a person
gathering their sweater
tight around their bones
feeling long and thin, and aching deep
as if the marrow has been pulled out
and only hollowness remains
in that, there is no cure
except
His arms stretched out
and beckoning
soon, to come
to rest around your shoulders
bringing the warmth and shine
of stars, and stars, and more stars
