In listless winds underneath,
the pale blossoms
cover favor from the rain.
Shadows hover over everything
that has come before.
From the sweat of gods drips blood,
unshaken from the horror
of words unspoken.
The sun has not risen in years
yet, the earth continues to grow
beneath our feet.
The landscape outside my windowless sill
hides the lies of callous minds–
lending its ears to the crooked streets,
where the blood runs dry
out from the gutted hearts of papal saints.