Tuesday, September 11, 2012


Clouded eye
Gnarled, trembling hand
Poised over poisoned paper
Collections of words
Twisted to purpose
Bent and dented

Did her
blonde mane frame
her cherubic face
as you struck away
the small hands raised
in expectation
of a father's

Daddy ...

In archaic style
oozing cold piety
the painful prose is
dragged screaming
and squirming
onto pages and
pressed dry

Did she
shy from
the threat of your hand
withstanding more
than you thought
she dare withstand?
This child
This wee one?

Reverend ...

Night sweats soil
foul grey sheets
ink which stains
black cracked nails
washes over
life lived
too long

Did you
find solace
in what you tore
from her?
Hold aloft the sacred sacrifice
it shines before your greedy eyes
scribbler, perhaps scribe
But never...


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