And so we come to this deserted street;
where blooded promises drift about
like curls of discarded confetti...

the parade left long ago

(somewhere a bell tolls -
we are called to prayer)

Your fingers delicately
move over the rosary of me;
those stations of flesh and flagellation -
those fervent whispers,
and swollen endearments.

I am absolved...
as your blessings burrow in the folds
of the only sanctity I can call my own

This is clean,
this is clean,
amidst the grime
of seven deadly sorrows
in a broken confessional booth;

This is holy,
this is holy,
among the remnants
of a language we lost
to spatial transgressions.

(somewhere a bell tolls-
we are called to take shelter)

Your fingers reverently
smooth this altar cloth over my knees;
as my tears water down old wine,
and you feast off of my crucifixion gasps-
I am reborn - again.

I am exalted...
as your blessings burrow in the folds
of the only salvation I can call my own

And so we come to a deserted street;
where broken promises drift about
like the ashes of burnt offerings...

these gods left a long time ago

this is clean
this is holy
this is clean
this is holy



We are what they meant
when they spoke of the promised land

05/24/2010

Author's Note: Tribute owed, is tribute earned...

Posted on 05/25/2010
Copyright © 2024 Therese Elaine