Second Coming

LOST PREACHER

Second Coming

Midnight Mass;
in the furthest corner of the churchyard,
underneath oak leaves that shimmer,
the Holy Ghost paces, thumbs in a twiddle;
moonlight shivers,
rustles the tattered cloth on his back.

Over chapped lips
he coughs up a spatter of beetle nut blood into concrete cracks
that feed angry vines
whisper-creeping over his feathered feet,
and flow up in between the crinkles in his robes
(like thirsty soldiers would follow dried-up streams),
through the shabby stitching in the seams,
up,
up,
up,
over fluids that gush from his ears;
splitting veins,
settling into the mould
of freakish dreams.

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