Supplication
Crashing down on
barren ground,
felled by a
joyless sun, shamefully peering from ashen puffery
ripe with the
rain to come.
Stifling dust
will mix to mud;
blood soaks
sorrow’s Sabbath.
The prolixity of
my sentence is a crucifying curse.
I cross myself:
Hypocrisy!
Pray selfish
prayers for solace despite carnal sins committed.
Your flesh, not
bread, is the sacrament I choose to choke upon—
and not a drop of
wine to save me.
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