It echoes. The cries of my sisters ring through these halls.
I can see the sorrow in their sleep-sunken eyes rimmed with weariness.
But the marble of men was made to hide the tear stains,
Allowing the chosen ones to remain chosen.
But have you forgotten where we stand, brother?
These halls - these walls are all gifts from the mother above.
Only the lace of a lady is apparent in the latticework of the arches,
Stretching above us like the curving back of a feline.
Come now to me and talk to me like a toddler,
Babbling about the scriptures and other nonsense you know nothing of.
Here, in the holy place, you will ask me to lift my head to you,
And with a sweet smile, I will beckon you back.
The burning candles smell like the corpses of children,
Reeking of your wretched desires as you wrap yourself around me.
You kiss my neck and pray to my name like the sinner you are.
For once, I'll hum and heed to your wishes.
Your scream will now join the chorus of stupid saints,
And your figure will be carved in cold limestone as a kind of remembrance.
They'll speak of the spilled blood of the lamb, heads bowed low,
As the maidens make a meal out of your carcass.
YOU ARE READING
Rose, Prose, Poetry
PoesíaExploring topics of love, limerence, grief, and everything in between, this is a collection of 100 poems written over a year. The works both reflect inner emotions and outward connections, attempting to capture the interconnected nature of the worl...
