Delilah kissed me till my lips were numb
On the watch-tower, under the clouds
As the city flowed past underneath
In a constant stream
of the colour of blood taken from the sunset
as the last of our poetry slips
underwater,
what remains of our bodies in October,
after the funeral rites are done.
A congregation of sinners, gathered under the stars in mock-worship
of a carnival of atrocity.
Delilah laughs like there is no tomorrow.
What if Jesus was a woman?
Delilah doesn't laugh anymore.
Delilah pushes me off the edge
and I drown and drown
into the colour of sunset that paints heartaches
on the skins of soldiers in the war against the world.
YOU ARE READING
Opus
Poetrya lonely Saturday conversation on the wrong side of the yellow bedroom curtains. ... || Wattys Winner 2018 ||
