I dropped my last silver bullet into a
bottle of holy
water and no matter how much I bite my
lip I can't turn
it into wine. Pearl buttons, I count
them like prayer
beads. Small teeth holding still.
The blood of the night seeps into the
sheets, the morning
lies cold, waiting. The long thin
strips of flagellation,
the rivulets of dreams that erode
further the small hopes
precarious in their curio.
I awake to the languid call of wolves
still sweet in the air.
The crucifix worms its way between my
ribs, It is easy to
wish for a soft hand when these tiny
fingers curl into my
heart. A gods death isn't easy on any
one. It is a language
of twigs, the constant rearrangement of
clicks and scrapes.
Paraphrased flowers and thorns. A
trembling breath to
answer. It is dilation and rapid
breathing. Blood too close,
turgid and twisted pushing the iron
from my hands. I roll into
a fist and fall back into sleep
.
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