Cellar Door

The withered hands of a man born again to die alone.
On the shadowy grounds beneath a rose cross
in the moonlight re-captured by the elements
lay curled clenching for omnipresence.

He had barely begun to exhale
when the world alight with sensual delight
becomes vibrant with the pulse of his echo.
The same world that knowingly smiles in photoluminescence.
The same fight or flight nature as he thought it was
caresses its grievances
so that it may saturate its enculturalization.

But it is not a birth right that this is a given
Nor is it innocence when stolen

More then less he watches the Right hand of justice
shaking the Left of sacrifice and forgiveness.
An articulated affirmation
spoken beneath a rose cross
on a night
well lit beneath the moon.