There are spirits that speak to me,

           From pine-sap-spoiled trees.

Their canopy of turmoil, growing with ease.

           Those voices and choices they emit

Into the heart-shattering night.

           So dark that all I can see

Are the souls, so full of grief.

           Oh, the (so-called) sins they have committed,

Strung up with treacherous speed,

           Before a word was even heard.

You poisoned the fleece-warm forest,

           And built your castles upon wretched mountains

Overlooking the bones and the stones

           With names etched (sketched by raw hands).

Was even a speck of remorse felt,

           As you watched the flames? 

On the narrow line

            Of ilium, possess me.

From haunting depths,

            To torrid crest,

It’s more than a mere plea.

            Perch atop the Corinthian columns,

Beside stone demons,

           Beside the drowning sea.

Lest I swoop down,

            With stained glass wings,

And remind you of everything

            You are capable of.