Black crows absolve sin with the crimson tinsel of fairy tales. A thin veneer between life and the grave awaits. Catholicism separates bones from sin as waves of fear linger in the darkness of the confessional box. Life is no longer able to give. Life begins only to retract where those of us who sin become orphaned. A placebo is born and the past can at last be put to rest. In the future I am dead.
Again the rain, the sill facing north thick with the green of moss. The call of the green, the divil never favours the colour of white. In blackness, handcuffed to the eye of the storm he waits. Pierrot moments, Glasgow faces in burlap sacks. Bombs and flags, a chimera rising to assist us in our sins. The sharp edge of the cleaver, fresh with a swatch of the innocents blood. An ancient ballet with home fires to set, he waits.
Fear controls the hand of fate offered up only by the lawless. Crippled demons never answer our prayers. Be sure of that. No longer they feed merely on the dead. Tourniquets of knotted hope hang perversly in the midnight breeze. In the dream, enemies hang from silk fabricated from muscle, sinew and bone. At last they sleep. Life and dreams are absolved by the Christ within their reach. I live on.
