ripped away, caught again, between the teeth of chance;
the world's blind hand points at me
and blames me for (the blood on the carpet)
the crimes I did not commit.
a goat on the table, sliced open chest, tangled wool,
a sponge that soaks up the blood of those who accepted instead of fought.
a recurring theme.
punished for being fair. punished for being honest. punished for accepting the punishment.
born to suffer the weight of those who run away with their hands full, who scatter the evidence at my feet, who leave my name at the cross.
the world gifts me with rage, rotten apple, pungent stench of wrong, a cell of thought. I learn that I am thrown under, proclaimed the villain — but with no savior to offer me my salvation.
the voice doesn't sound like my own. heart out in the open air, beating, asking — where is the blood from? from killing?
(from crawling out.)
the noise presents me at the altar and burns my body, along with my name. a pearl, a dagger, a proof of virtue. they preach me unholy, announce me as the enemy, run when I remain whole, shed skin.
now the serpent, the spilled chalice, the hymn of cry, slithers up the pinnacle. where I am untouched. where I am heard. close to heaven. close to justice.
at the summit, the view is isolating. I watch as the bodies of those who drowned me curve the snow like lost anchors.
I look at my hands.
they are clean.
"The Burning of the Lamb"
© Rizu Lu
All Rights Reserved.
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IOU (Poetry Preview)
PuisiMy latest collection of prose poetry and short experimental narratives, IOU (a phonetic acronym of the words "I owe you"), chronicles the teeth of self reflection, the harrowing bottomless pits of the mind, the grieving of the ego, and the wounds of...
