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I was immoral. You used to rod my soft legs.
I’m older now.
My eyes at your door this morning: you locked
me out with the other strays, the don’t-belongs
without homes. Your face shaded and turned
up the stairs.
You once splayed my hand over your stove
so I would choose Heaven, dragged me outside,
bone against bone—
uncurled, broke back two fingers. My palm
blistered as the sun fizzed. You threw bandages
and cursed prayers at me.
Thus, God’s great eye blinks through a glass
that magnifies charred life, as clouds unroll
over quilted sky, masking its bearded keeper.
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Arkadius
I absolutely love this~!
Jack Raven
I read this one a few days ago and have been thinking about it quite a bit.
Very well done.
I love you for reading. I hope I dont traumatize my readers, but writing helps us heal.
by Catherine Zickgraf; ; Report
It absolutely helps us heal. It may sound odd, but i activly seek art like this. Art that has potential of traumatizing people is often the most honest,meaningful, and helpfu. l
by Jack Raven; ; Report