to burn the soul

the sea is red.

the edges of the oceans bled

as all the babies cried overnight 

in their lonely bed.

their cries were not heard,

and mystery is the final word,

replied

the saints and sinners and their prayers,

opening closed windows,

tossing away their cares

drinking deeply in the view

from the center aisle of the final pew,

watching cities and shooting stars sing,

down on their knees worshiping

for a fire to burn the soul,

before an expansive blackhole

swallows the last passion in a single bite

and devours the heart of purest moonlight.