God's Love Child is A Crimson Exit Wound Poem by Mark Heathcote

Child, the eye of God is a black hole.
Everything is drawn-up towards
that dark vision of the unknown,
the things that once existed, the likes
of you and me, we-are-now in retrospect,
leading an invisible life and has become
fairy tales, legends, fairy folk,
a-fable-you, see. God's love child
is a crimson exit wound, a lantern-lit door
but right now, child, we're still
here slowly bleeding, ebbing gently away.
Our hearts still beat on the circumference
of that great-mystical celestial wheel,
that trumpet flower that has us in its final grip
like bindweed that's about to let rip.
Sure every-flower-has-got roots child,
only these are not just aerial or
subterranean these-are-the irises of God
when his gaze has fallen upon us.
And our strength, our search-is-at
a blossoming end. It is the pip, the pulp
at the centre of a stone. The seed eternal,
the fabric of your soul you'll one day
carry back home, unfathomable,
consigned to further continuously grow.