celestial beating

when it's lights out,
the heart will waver
like a liar's tongue
quietly dancing with the likes
of latent distress
between graves
the breeze of steady rot
smells of gospel's death
flown to the swollen ground
as if it were eyes of grief
it matters very little
when saviors have spent their high
leave the throne empty
if not for the meat in our teeth
then for the war
that will wake every sleeping street
your crutch is our cross to bear

i know halos from horns