The saint cries with tired eyes
Look at the wild fires – Hills
against a dark sky waiting for
a red moon revealing hours
I need weights of restless
feet waking up on soaked sheets
The sacred skies won’t fix it
Closer than breathing it sticks
to a heightened light – Guide me
Hide me under big grey wings
For now it can be that chosen
feel small and fragile holding
rosaries and counting to all
that see the order – The likes
of humanity and their alikeness

© Monique (starfish_72)