The last act is written in the sand, awaiting the close reading of the sea. The final chapter is buried like treasure in those weary folded hands. Prophecy exudes like steam from the warm flesh of each finished day, every starry night freezing secrets in frosted grass and spilled light. There is a shine to the truth when it falls from your lips, despite the tripped tongue tumble, despite the error towards the cautious providence. There is a light in your eye that dies a little, with each and every lie. The spirit moves through us all, but its business is anything but honorable.
Sift through all this aimless hatred, all these wars of ill-chosen words. Dig down beneath the dry skin and the sharp tongue, vivisect that one kernel of honesty amid all this craven disarray. Find the angle hidden beneath angel's wings, the profit beneath the spat parable, the hunger feeding the scalding prayer. Kiss the beads, bow down before your god of dust and plagues. Deny that there is a heaven by the heat within your blood, murder your savior with your sins of usurping his domain. Flay the unbelievers with chapter and verse, making meaningless all you claim to believe.
It must be the burning fires, the additions of tradition that you love. It must be the wounds weeping, the spattering of all the blood you lap like wine. Fold your hands and whisper venom, give up the ghost with every hurtful breath. Tell me which tomorrow I will rue, tell me the law you claim today. The unyielding exclamation of creation drowns out your tea weak palaver. The universe seethes through us and you think the word is in a book.
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