Monday, January 02, 2012

Are these days that test my faith,
even when I never had none?
Are these words of Anglica too poor
to be couched in nothing but Biblical referentia?
Are they crouching within
the left temple of Pat Robertson,
nay, synagogue,
nay, demagogue
(nay, but he is the Christian Balrog?)
Circle deep the pool of thoughts
plumb the Stygian depths of reptilian umbilica
and seek life in those clammy depths of the Mother Goddess
Her placental warmth gives rise to words of loss
pregnant with meaning and self-worth and self-standing.
Those few unearthed onyxes dew-ridden with the collective humidity of a heaving earth
they will be my messengers.
Take them and run.
hide in the caverns and wait your turn,
arise dear Lazarus when the sun strikes at the face of a new sky far away in time.

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