Hold your breath, you mortals

dressed in borrowed skin; this flesh

is none the wiser for all

its pomp and frenzy, nor more

permanent for all its sheer

transparency. Tread lightly

on this hallowed sphere, ingest

into gossamer lungs this

gossamer oxygen (pale

ribbons, bare hints of spectral

wares weaving life to living)

which seeks to wrap the broken

things with something less broken.

Dare you raise your head into

heaven? Walk in sandaled feet

where bushes quiver with flame?

Romanced, death may yet conquer

all – unless we marry Love

to Chaos, Grace to Weakness;

in that thread of hope-light, flesh

may yet walk in dignity,

skin wrap bare bones in pupal

cases which crackle with life.