by White Bishop
Through the lugubrious walls of his ravenous gullet
The wincing sap secretes into his watery eyes
To stain on his shining robe.
He speaks to the sitting thousands,
Serpent-tongue infancy lacing their minds.
They never tasted the poison pumped in their ears.
Give your blood; present your flesh to your new saviour.
Dried up river has watered these trees for too long now,
The languid branches cutting
Small faces into ichor painting shards.
Their canvas ripped around the borders and flew in the wind.
Where are they now?
With his folded hands he carries their frames
And takes them to his home.