My heart became like smoke or Saturn’s air,
A heart that wind can pass through made of mist.
My heart took on this life, a demon’s prayer,
As dead as that, a glowing demon’s fist.
My heart sailed out to find a little ait
Where sheep were waiting in their midnight white.
They too were dead. No scales could find their weight.
Their wool was like my heart. From demon’s rite
Their coats had come. Slow mouths grazed by the heaps
Of rocks, souls lost in time and buried, stones
From sacraments above them. Pity sleeps
The deepest dreamlessness. The cairns crush groans.
My inner cavities are filled with haar,
My blood the color of a see-through star.
~ Phillip Whidden