The Power Thereof

The pulpit of the exalted
on the back of stained glass of a dragged heaven,
centrifuged from a global body's amygdala,
acts charity of the same exhaustion,
and the heaven is one of blood and muscle spraining.

In the courts of the Commonsense,
yogis and some seers are tried by the 40th years
if there are any secrets for the New Wave to know
for the mobocracy's confidential inquisition into matters that fulfill the empty breathing of civic norms.

The graveyards.

In the dark umbrella, the saints mourn,
but at separate graves,
not touching one the other below the overcast.

The pulpit rages in plasmic solar crowns of a burdening chemical law,
and the saints disperse in funeral processions,
swords to break the cementing pressure, but a hesitation, burrying themselves alive ever so often
to not drink into the springing cup of their faith's arbiter.