When the Sky is Iron

When the sky is iron
and the grave dirt’s heavy.
When the wait’s been long
and groaning only echoes,
and the present time’s not worthy of what’s coming.

When empires of dirt
fruitlessly flop and flail.
When breath-bound lungs
are empty of all song,
and every plan that’s plan stumbles and fails.

When worn out tools
are heavy in hand.
And every machination,
and every lamentation,
is nothing but dry sand in the end.

When the coffin lid closes
and the darkness wins,
only then resurrection,
only then resurrection,
only then resurrection can break in.