and the rubbing, scratching, friction of the insects with their voices
set the stage for the man once doubted to remind me of faith and such ideals
the fading cheer of the atmosphere, the mere evanescence of the light
makes it all too easy for me to close my eyes
and my hair falls to my thighs
and for the first time in a while
my skin, my lips, tongue
hang away from my face like dead things
to remind me of the fact that i am
simply
bones
and that in one hundred years, no one will remember my names
and i am chastised in a gentle way
for losing hope
and seeking it out
in dyed denim, and lesser pursuits
for the first time in a while, i am liberated, and yet
there is a hand upon my shoulder
that does not belong to a face
at least none that i can see.
still and all, i am free.
YOU ARE READING
the shepherd's sword
Random[the things we dare not say aloud] the walls have faces, you know. the angels do not.
