Praise to the rat-king spiral,

Finding me in weary eyed times,
As kaleadescopic halo for malcontents;
A meager rest among blackened fabric oceans and charred visages.
A bloody-footed pilgrim enraptured by cardinals and crows alike,
Palms outstretched like horizons,
For faith, glory and grace in summer.
 
Beyond doubt, I am betwixt carnivalesque moments,
Uphill boulder weatherworn ever lighter,
Pinnacle in sight.
And when I reach that place,
And the solar apex briefly eradicates shade from the world,
Naught but pocket pebbles will weigh my kindling hands,
Reignited at last.