Skip to main content

Poem 4

though i stand chapped
by the hot air of my lungs;
though my heart stinks
with the festering of open wounds;
though the fount is caked in claret crust, from
the sting of weeping cuts and viscous blood

your name
is a healing balm,
your spirit
is vitality

you still the boiling waters;
subdue the unsettled shores.

when the choice of rebellion chafes
creaking anxieties cleave and splinters break, you
dependably pluck them up, a little litter;
and burden the bugs no more.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Poem 9

washed up, my skin is the bristling foam and bright sand of the beach; a prolonged contact with the Holy lapping, lapping, lapping. washed up from tumult, the inner sea; the fight to keep it down, unsuccessful for too long i am ready to rise; to walk with my measly legs, i get up to turn around, and face the flooding surge of the storm with what balance and grace God gives. we will see what follows after, a baptism and a drowning.
Post a Comment
Read more