I. Blasphemy
...and I made you my false god
Standing in dry sand
The worshipper at your feet
Clutching with
pauper hands
Threadbare
Worn in wayfared grace.
I have made my sacrifice
At the altar
Built the bones in
Rough-hewn hem
Etched secrets into blood.
I was the prophet
In a drought-stained land
Drinking you like wine in the
Rim-rocked dark.
Breaking bread
While the crows circle silent
Stealing crumbs.
The prayers of faithless
Fall empty
Shattering
Like glass.
II. Hilltop
We are torn in ourselves
Like elms in the boneyard
swayback branches
Withered
With the weight of staying alive.
Tethered high atop the hill
Where the gallows swing slow
In the june breeze
We're a wasteland
Remnants
Of a storied life
Relegated to silent death.
YOU ARE READING
Elms In The Boneyard
Poetry...a collection of poems exploring notions of time, place, and the inner emotive mind.
