Monday, March 6, 2017

light of miriam

Things are meant.
Death grips the meaning,
loses trees in seas of forest.
Bernadette is praying there.
There is someone
one beam of light
tender mercy-ed,
gentle iron-eyed
beaming in the
dusty dark rock shadow.

Smeared black ink,
lipstick stains smear crimson
writing their own sonnets
on clean white page.

Her sweet smile celebrates
love which breaks our
inward-turning,
stifling, self-sated sight.

One abandoned man,
hanging in shadow,
a shape of horror, pain,
twisted by torquing force of
torture we profess as love.

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