Blood flows cool and thick like a sweet sap,

Words a toxic resin bursting through

Dry, aching lips which all but set a trap

For any innocent beast to fuel the fires.

With feet planted so firmly in the past

They take  root, unable to stray away

From the fractured stained glass dreams

In the cathedral where Santiago prayed

To an absent, benevolent God beneath

The ancient Sycamore. And hooks held

Up a broken, ugly carved smile,

But only for a little while,

Before even those lips fell victim to the rain.

Perhaps there was treasure hidden—

A gold uptake among the many leaves.

But precious hates and precious hides,

And regret is a tangible disease.

And under the onslaught, a shield in worn,

And under the onslaught, the core dies away

To preserve, to persevere, for another winter.

And much is lost, much is just shorn

Away to preserve the aching, dead body.

But wait for spring, and it will be found

That life is still prosperous—

But burrowed deep into the ground.