a poem

[Lux of the Agony]

Stephen’s song is ready,

upon the lips;

the voice in the desert,

is prepared for death.

She has not wings, but the scapular,

to guide her into port.

As venom’s hiss to the sour,

and contemptuous bite;

whose throes send pain,

into the heart of my beloved,

So when the vine gives strength,

to the branch, the echoes of

violence will begin to diminish.

A seed is planted,

in your midst; but will it grow,

or die. It is your prerogative.

The Farmer takes delight,

in peace; and at the harvest,

He will pick good fruits;

Woe to those who take delight,

in gossip & venomous undertakings.

Theirs are the weeds which will burn.