Burden Of Proof

In the masses lives escape /told in stories where swallows nest/you see the blue halos/ saints are cautious in the Archway. They freeze their random death /cry as they abandon/what’s odd about the god./They peer at mottoes in a cornice, /they wear their red silk threads. /Come sinner, come saint;/exit the crimson mold,/argue with serpents in song./Settle on what you pray for. / Pledged to the comic war/their cruel lips seem startled /they are wrapped up as spies.

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