minds consummated in wine awakened kneeling with upward descent towards the beginning
They are speaking in burned tongue, completing thoughts with cyclic understanding and bursting epiphanies. Fruit so ripe, afterbirth rushes from their flesh freshly split:
And they rinsed their hands in the spring water flowing from the mouth of a river lined with a choir baptized in Light.
Their communal voice is mouthing inverted sign language, Truth ascending, as foretold by the Stars.
And the typescript Braille that scrolled boldly upon the face of the Moon was superintended by the Sun, and it echoed the cries of an angel.
And with spiritual resurrection, they compassionately stretch their wings feathered in ivory across a universe fallen silent to the ancient dialect unearthed and resounding.
And they wait for the trumpets to sound:
All-too-human they writhed, churning oil from roots, but in-sync they fell humble, watching consciousness expand.