A weight grows out of its wizened branches;
From earthís diaphanous trunk, its shadows
Crouch in the darkness, planted slantwise and
Draped like chasubles in textured mist -
Contorted against the twirling torso
Of a perspiring earth - upon the roots
Of the stale air - as ivory and as pale
As mortal virility.
Painted sky, immersed in dark-hued twilight,
That tells in ominous parameter
Scenes of starkly arisen proportion!
Ascends this fulcrum of cross, hinged to the
Crowbar, wrestled with the tombís folds and
Strapped to vastly dilapidated vestments.
from PRIME - Hours of the Cross
(c) 2005 Simon Tang†