Hollows of Our Hearts
To misnamed gods, to Termagant, to unholy threes,
the false baptisms, drenched in tears, the ancient curse.
Do we whisper our hopes in vestibules,
guarded by cherubic saints in sinner’s robes,
or flock in fields speckled by the blood of battles
stones raised like empty hands before fearful gods?
Hence the pagan, hence the heretic, hence the atheist,
sprigs of holly, berry red, sanctifying excrescence.
Do our feasts devour us, our ravenous appetites
our self-deluding interpretations of internal organs
or, guided by the interactions between acids and bases
with generous fortitude, do our minds ascend?
Here before, there beyond, in the subtle break
between the now and next, the beaks, the teeth
the claws, the rending of flesh, the piercing of spirits,
the everlasting struggle between echo and desire,
boundless empty chasms, reverberating, waiting,
hoping that the hollows of our hearts can be filled.