coils and turning over turnings
I burn cinder ash boil
I burn. Turning over myself.
Climbing my shadow or eeking over justice
I burn why how I live to burn
the rage a gentle storm, a storm a fist of rays
the rays a gilded form, the form made up of rage.
the eyes a bended hook, a hook of bitter age
the age a breaking book, the book behind the cage.
what now is meant to hold a book from breaking out
and how is sent, how told, the look that slithers out?
The dark stands
away, blindfolded
Advent: The Wall of the Mask and the Mirror