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Poem
There is an ancient sadness that runs through you,
Creeps through your core,
Burrows deep,
Bound fast with rotting roots,
The sorrows and sufferings of your ancestors,
Immovable in decay,
A proud heritage,
Of hypocrites,
Heretics,
And the occasional martyr,

You know them still,
Lain beside them as they fester in disintegration,
The cool, quiet suffocation washing over you,
Settles, sinks though,
Lying heavier and hotter now,
Until the sounding brass cracks the crypt,
Your chest cavity lies open,
And all it dead are subject to a second resurrection,

What is love? 
But merely science,
Chemicals in your bloodstream,
Genetic compatibility,
A trick of the light,
Or a shot in the dark,
Burns past targets unknown,
Unseen bullet meets its mark,
You’ll find sensible ways to account for the pain in your chest,
It’s the asthma,
Or a cold,
Prematurely growing old,
Imagine your surprise when they pluck the piece of metal from your back,
Fractured and misshapen from the blast,
And covered in your heart juice,

The hands you grew to love,
With their veins that were rivers,
Under paper skin sky,
Flowing fat and warm with life force,
Seeping through his palm pores into yours,
Feeding your tributaries,
Your soul source,
Are responsible for this mess,

You were never one for flowers,
Watching the roses turn rancid and insipid in decay,
And the stench it left you retching,
How you hated it,
How it lingered in the air for days,

But the words,
Yes the words,
Not whispered in your ear,
To fade into oblivion,
Lost on strange pathways,
Nerves and neurons, fickle and faulty,
Or lingering longer,
Though not as they were spoken,
But twisted and changed,

No,
Immortalised in ink,
Tangible and tasteable on the page platter,
Sprawling across the wafer wooden leaf,
Another beautiful mess of his hands’ devising
Slip it into pillows and pockets and petticoats,
Remember them,

Write them,
On walls and under windows,
Behind curtains and tapestries,
And on your secret skin,

Recite them,
In your hallowed spaces,
Spine beads for a rosary,
He’ll bring the bread,
You’ll bring the blood,
Your wound still runs red,
Thicker and stickier than the wine,
Twice as bitter,
Twice as sweet,
You’re drunk on it,
And intoxicated by the smell,

The poison apple of his throat,
Lies untouched and waiting,
For you to sink your teeth in to a fatal salvation,
Leaves you looking for redemption.
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