The Prayer

It is with primitive urgency and lustrous clarity, 
rising like flickering embers from a fire, 
raging at the foot of the cross. 

Woven together like knotty wool, 
silk, and fine strands of silvery water, 
the disparate souls link their hands in shaken 
tyranny. 

There is hysteria in the masses. 

Deceitful tongues, 
jilted by sin, bleed profuse benedictions, 
        but fall short of the glory of God. 

Angels fall, 
their broken skin spilling unholy blood across the earth, 
baring unrighteous visages upon their cracked and tired 
faces. 

They are bereaved of their ethereal home… 
turned down by the prodigal Son. 

Today, there is no mercy.

"And I speak to you, oh sundry persons. 
Unveil yourselves, and release your vehement quarrel. 
Cry out to Him, and surely He will hear. 
If there be but silence, 
query Him again, 
for without doubt He is a busy man."