Shut slits drip drops–
the streams stain the flushed face
in whitewashed trails across the expanse
beneath the quaking horizon,
but not one drop drips
into the serpent’s plate–
each drizzles into hands drawn
toward infinitely toward infancy–
dabbled in novelties that ferment
into renovated firmaments–
oblivion’s face debased
as the prince commences the crusade.
Even vinegar sweetens deserted
palates–the density sobers inebriated
stations, cracks the core of Calvary,
resurrects crucified love renewed:
I am reborn.

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