The soft elbow of grace nudges a soul toward the light,
up a foggy path of narrow steps and shifting edges,
along crumbling battlements of belief.
Foundations of truth once stolid and confirmed,
now sentinels of decay,
unable to restrain the invading hordes of darkness,
ravaging the radiance of the mind.

Fog like a folded blanket smothers all perception,
dank with the sweat of hallucination,
thick with the silence of unspoken imaginings.

Through the narrowing iris of the mind’s eye
oblivion receives the vision,
as earthquake canyons open beneath tumbling walls
to swallow the last stones of faith,
falling screams of reason,
echoing into the abyss,
like victim voices of volcanic sacrifice.

Out of the labyrinth caverns of ritual,
fly white eyed ravens,
blindly mimicking the mystic chants of priesthood,
as anointed shamans of the grail,
blend blood with wine into homogenous atonement,
dispensing reborn innocence from pulpit pyramids,
where bleached skulls and martyred hearts corrupt the harvest,
salvaged from the killing floors of virgin violence.

On backward winding clocks time gives way to tempest,
to hurricane force memories and tsunami diatribes,
revoking the sacred oaths and sanguine monologues,
of post-mortem ministry.

“Focus, focus on the light”,
comes a voice of pity,
calm and clear,
above the roaring waterfalls of torrent loneliness,
above the wanton cries of infant instinct.

Through stained glass shards the light reflects a rainbow,
and on these pristine prisms,
the fog is lifted.
As holy waters merge with the dark pigments of unmitigated madness,
a soul surrenders,
to the fragile gravity of a floating iceberg,
somewhere between the polar regions of the brain.