Pagan (I)

a sonnet

We fall in many bodies, many times.
Outside the Christian faith, the tower chimes
our deaths, but also our rebirths.
We do not sing dirges,
nor proceed in black garments, cross
the squares or streets with gold aloft.
As graveyards gather damp and moss.
We sing to dance, we laugh, we croft...
We share and love our bodies like
they weren't just an old man's mistake.
As if the rotten dike of time
must be observed always, to never slake
a human heart. Which is,
when all's been said, a reddish blade of grass.
Written by Casted_Runes (Turpin)
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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