Rapture and Riddle
A sleeping beast
Or winged messenger from God
Lays its quicksand of the truth
And I am spat like a petal from some nameless bloody heart
A constant question of the proof
I scratch in complacent deals
With my fellow’s skin and drone predators
While living in the fields
A cauldron drips
These poppies fix
A soldiers boot
Addiction is
The needle spent is where I live
But faith can be
Such a fickle masturbation of sentiment
Did I nail myself onto the wood
In scarlet scars through shrinking palms
Sacrifice my history
So they could write a misshapen allegory
So they could rest their scraps
In painted psalms of papier-mâché
None of it was me
I was not born to be
An asset
Of their delinquency
Did I lay myself out in love
To hang there torn upon the cross
A plush riddle in comforts upholstery
The benediction of their ease
The filthy placebo of their greed
In the ragged bones I fall to earth
In the moist illusion of the dust
With this wretched taste of famine in my throat
Am I the benediction of their greed
The filthy placebo of their disease
A nameless child who scavenges
For every single breath
As I lay here in the dirt
And in the gluttony of the church
And so for pities sake
Just one more obloquy of prayer
In the chronicle of remembrance
Or sleeping angel
A winged beast sent from the savage eye of God
Lays in the quicksand of the truth
Spat from a stinking petal
Of some cringing bloody heart
And I will gather here a while
The meagre scraps of dust and earth
A constant question of the proof
Copyright © Colin Mitchell Williams | Year Posted 2011
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