Poetry Night 1 of 3

Eating out of Hallowed Hands

I wish that I could be mild.
I wish that my world could unfold around me,
like flowers reach joyfully toward the sun.
But I am made of iron not of light.
My ancestors ate stone.
Like them,
I am fierce in defense of my scars
and sometimes that ferocity leaves no room for mercy.

I stand alone,
a living cenotaph in brutal tradition,
and the dead whisper in my skull
reminding me of the bodies left behind.
There is no quarter.
There is never any quarter…
until I am quartered
my drawn soul lying in pieces,
sweet meats for the greasy-lipped delectation
of my ragged band of spirits
and furious, hungry gods.

I am like bone bleached in the fury of the funeral pyre,
covered with ash.
I am no longer hollow
but hallowed.

Posted on June 21, 2016, in Poetry, Uncategorized and tagged . Bookmark the permalink. 1 Comment.

  1. ‘…I am no longer hollow
    but hallowed.’

    WoW…just WoW. This bit deep into me. I’ll be working with it for a while. Thanks..


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