dark night of the dying year

 we will speak of it, you and I, empty handed brothers of the bleeding heart on this dark night of the dying year, as they gather around in your name, washed in the blood of the lamb to suck the marrow from your bone and drink your blood like wine and dance circles around the cross of your despair, where alleluias ring and dead men growl, dying to be born again and the horn and the hoof shall rule in your name. we will speak out though they tear out our tongues by the root and stop our mouths with their cocks, teeth marks on the breast, foot in the crotch and death and breath that would sour milk and though they would hound us out of our lands, we will speak out on this dark night of the dying year. we will speak with the grace of our being, the sweetness of our dying breath, we will speak from the funeral pyre, with the hand on the elbow, we will speak of a  hard rain that would wash you off your feet , we will speak of a raging fire called love that would burn you down to a cinder.