gather your crosses;
from the windows, upon the steeples,
from the headstones of the children,
take up in your arms, on your back,
all crosses that are and were.
the slivers of wood that drank Christ’s blood:
full like ticks in the skin of Cerberus,
dead without rot, flesh of a saint, a vampyr.
and let us out to the campfire,
growing cold in ancient circle.
the path is a hearth in a heather,
as frosts alight the points of the thorns;
weakness will not serve you here dead child,
silence never welcomes screams.
oh embers, oh ashes,
ever immutable ever changed,
become a god, a cinder,
a smoldering fire, a new flame.
and leave this earth the richer,
the sky a colorless haze.
take all the crosses that once were,
leave no memories, no paths, no ways.