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Bottled Martyr

by Matthew Zangen

Tilted church, drag memory
before me, I have a reckoning.

Altered bodies still chaste,
we are branded with silence
wrought from your lips.

Boring through sermonic sighs,
we are delivered under deceptive mass
yet unburdened,
glaring indignant imposition,
incensed and poring through vaporous years
sticky with dispassion
like ancient wax,

we will burn away.

With wanton benediction, clear my name
with frantic smearing ash
and I will lash faster
on your worried shoulders,
belting thinner
the hollowed psalm of vows.

Tear this writing from the walls
where we bled ourselves righteous.
Echo those impenitent pleas
with palms clasped on secret ends.

Latch the door when you leave
and I will take our confession.

08/04/2018

Posted on 08/04/2018
Copyright © 2018 Matthew Zangen

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 08/04/18 at 07:10 PM

Every word carries this metaphor forward boldly, blazing. Great stuff. I love the "tilted church", "sermonic sighs," and my favorite lines - "incensed and poring through vaporous years sticky with dispassion like ancient wax, we will burn away."

Posted by Glenn Currier on 08/07/18 at 04:06 AM

"Tear this writing from the walls / where we bled ourselves righteous" I don't know why but these lines are haunting me. My imagination was moving from Martin Luther to St. Paul to... well... the martyrs. Your title too has me thinking. But that's what your work does for me. It jolts me out of my patterns and challenges my imagination and thinking. Thanks for the awakening, Matthew.

Posted by Philip F De Pinto on 08/23/18 at 02:22 PM

images, much energized by youthful rebellion abound in this, in the maze of which I am gladly held captive ( never ) to ponder exits.

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