they don't understand living, the
lot of them, they don't understand
the wound of death. and their
pews are full but their hearts are
uninhabited places. they too are
distant from their own flesh, but
maybe not in way of wound. A strange
damage, peculiar impressions on the skin
that look like a crucifix

where does the fury flee when it
is no longer welcomed in the bones?
to far countrys or highlands, but
even there the hills are scorched and swollen