Fault-line

Butterfly- footed,
locked above the barrel
in your new age saintly pose.

Does this mean you're free
from the public gun when it fires entire folk lives.
Some sing "ad infinitum", I am a house sized door
where there's sin and smiting

A fatal loft racing through the Attacama,
wastelands with brown dunes that dye
stainless marrow, crack stainless steel heels.

Some warn - he has Viking fists,
and loves like a bludgeoning riot
feels like a makeshift heaven
the eerie tall dream bringing vertigo.

Yet noone speaks for him, in his favour
speaks of silent tremors - anxiety,
flashing in his clouds, feral lightning,
neon blue lamps bleeding in the basement.
the count, the dark transylvanian Lord,
each night he comes as a horseman,
with hooves drawn like zeros
kicking pleasantries out and about

He goes helter-skelter,
collapsing stars incinerate
He goes into his hell, regretfully
Wears it reluctantly like a bad holiday sweater.

And when it happens will you remain -
butterfly footed, lock your wings on the barrel
sing I can be free, in your new age, saintly pose.