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We wander in the dark.
A reaper towers over us.
“No,” we say “It is not time yet.”
The shadow decays
And we are alone.

We hold a candle without flame,
Watch all prayers turn to stone
We feel our souls tear to pieces
When the stars do not follow,
Stars all around the little lights
Of the garden where we lay.

We are the offering, we are the offering,
And the gentleness of the shadows
Is the womb where we find rest.
If asked where our flames are
“It must be dark” is our cool reply.

I left the garden once,
But something pulled me back;
Something biting at my foot.
I fell at the gateway
And was brought shrieking to the grass.

We are stigmata. We are shade.
Bleeding silently into the grass.
Our Lord is stone and we shall not want
Only the moon knows our true form
And the sun never wanders here.

Go away! Go away!
It is not time yet!
A silence creeps in our blood,
A silence that seems to sing
So deep is its terror.
Please leave! Please leave!

--Marten Hoyle