Radiant and undefiled, the arcs
Of lightning further glow,
Until the hollow, wayward night
Doth swallow up the shattered seeds
Of fallen sky—the tears of God—
That split in twain and ever flow
Away into Eternity, where
Fortune ultimately leads.
There’s little point in reaching up
To hoist ourselves among the clouds,
But fitful hearts conspire to
Sing songs of urgent memory,
And while the rigors of forethought
Decline to lift their damp’ning shrouds,
We leap until our knees dissolve
And lay us down alone to bleed.