Merciel

A child’s tears cut more precise surgeon’s knife–
Envenomed with sting unbated by any spice.
Eyes bleed old vinegar on budding paradise–
If hell is death dealt twice, his cries render it thrice.

That banshee whine ignites the mother rose aflame–
Pink petals wilt as night dispenses thorns untamed–
Deeper than crucifixion they pierce the martyr vein
With fire even Venus dare never constrain.

That prunéd face drips vinegar out swollen cracks–
Submerges the rock–I am–immersed in cataracts.
Each gasp fortifies the flood’s next wave of attack–
Sun sets as the tide pushes the horizon back.

Each teardrop buries smiles another fathom down–
The pressure clogs each breath with murmurs underground
Of greater tears ahead no lullaby can drown
Until–at last–in wood and dirt forever bound.

A child’s tears are the great deluge on Springtide nights.
Hell’s flames cremate, but his newborn cries crucify.