deepundergroundpoetry.com

Reconciliation

You are not the sun.

It doesn't set behind your lungs
or rise faithfully from your stride,
but climbing rungs of ribs I can pull the rubies
from your throat with my beak.

Sharp as obsidian I knap
my tongue into a weapon,
scrubbing your insides with sand
until the ghosts of long dead tides
draw breaths of beauty and mystery.

The shadows of your bones lie.
Only echoes remain, ricocheting
paralyzed hymns toward a moth eaten moon.

Ether, baby.
I lift starless wings
above the wound of your name;

and curse the scent of melting wax.
Mabon
Written by Mabon
Published
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