I am in between the hail stones now.
Above me a slowly falling wall of thunder.
A cascade of skulls; laughing,
their grins gather at my feet.
My feet serve only to feed earths cold shudder
to my eyes and then to the eyes of another,
to keep the spin in time for the falling world underneath.
I am a monk with a curse,
a frozen, wounded healer,
my heart as dark and as cracked as my tongue.
surrounded only by ghosts and holocaust
God, and the falling teeth
from his tombstone smile,
I am of the truest of losts.