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The Sacrament
Bliss as words like wine pour over a pure slate,
staining it with their meaning
and reddening it with their tones.
Fervor takes over;
the scene unfolds like something already decided
as one letter follows another
like drops from a chalice,
dripping until it overflows.
My neck is craned from fatigue
and out of reverence
as ideas become flesh before my eyes.
Each word is holy—
each character is bread to the wine of emotion.
Sleep is a martyr,
dead on the altar of my craft.
My hands shake from the caffeine
flooding my bloodstream
and the adrenaline joining it
as the ritual continues.
This story is my body.
These words are my blood.
I do this for remembrance—
the hope that I can become something more than
what I am.
Copyright ©
Hanna Joyton
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