Hymn for the Stone Rings of Carnac

This rage and clenched grief
cuts
ghost from bone and rock from sky.
In the hard light, circled stones and
glowing air
sing the lyric of loss
and betrayal.

The frailty of sea and breath
leads to
the furious storm that opens
and carves the ivory path of redemption,
or the darkened way
that lurches in the madness of this gift.

Birthing wrinkled fingers clenching
patterns and constellations,
questing through days of doubt and
reproach.

Lost in the line of days,
longing for marrow to sing the lyric everlasting,
a hymn of holy blood,
and immortality.
Worldly flesh still grieves
and the bone is silent in the consuming night.

Beyond the frailty of dying flesh,
the mountains still draw the tears,
still whisper the promise of height,
and a touch of sky so true and pure.

But flesh is dumb to the lyric,
earless to the hymn of spirit and specters.

The end descends in an urge of despair
and then the drawing of blood from sinew.

The tumbling sea swallows them all,
as the mouth of stones chant the grief of numbered days
and tells the tale of lost promises of flesh and light.

The past rises and sets,
now only this course circles the eye,
as the hand grasps for tears and standing stones.

The sea rolls in,
mumbling its name to the mouth of stones,
and hope streaking light,
captures rock and tears,
that spin the heavens dizzy
as countless days grind breath away.

Despair rubs smooth all marks and etchings,
that drove the hand to scream beyond this present,
and to holler its I am to the blank passing.

Feeble flesh feebly cursing the dark worm
that curls
and silences all hands and lyrics,
and only mute stone circles remain.