Each night, I step into the charred embrace of the firepits, where embers twist like tongues …of prophets, lost to time—a seething choir of voices wailing hymns no saint could name.Â
The blueprint for salvation burns at the edges, its ink dissolving into smoke that coils like serpents whispering in sacred verse.
The cavernous hall swallows every echo, leaving only the hunger of the unanswered, a thirst that gnaws the marrow from the bones.
So sayeth, the cyclone, writhing in the dark, its voice, the tempest spoken in the tongues of burning sage—each word a dying star that fades to glory, swallowed by the void.
Doomed behind the gates of hallelujah, we kneel in ash, our hands raised to the pyre, fingers blackened with the soot of prayers that never rose beyond the scorched horizon.
The night exhales its breath of shattered psalms, and in the silence, only the fire remains— a golden mouth that feasts upon our name.
