The underworld was coming up through the floorboards as I watched a PBS special on the Knights Templar and Kate Bush. Was it respect they demanded, from under the ground, or was it just a tithe, a relic to find and kill over, slaying children in the street, beating the night with blood stained wrist watches, that will be burned to the god of poverty and guilty conscious. I can’t seem to slide out into the dark to watch the crucifixion of the seventh seal, a dripping wax candle stands in the middle, chanting about the end of the world and cursing the light and the son, the prophet of the chessboard. Screams from the women who’ve lost their birthing womb, run through with a spear in the side, hung on the cross of “third world countries.” The feathers are falling, falling off my wings that force me to see myself in the mirror: I will look into the glass, shattered and fragmented, and smile with content that the world is not perfect and I can only sleep with my eyes open. Another casket walks by and sighs, listening to the rain that falls above him, as I sleep near this cold stone epitaph that keeps him chained to the earth, he is being dragged down by the inferno and sarcasm hides the pain that he feels.
- Megan Coleman
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