Wednesday, 2 January 2008


Dirty rag doll,
twisted body
and unraveled seams,
she looks for her being
deep within heart dust,
holding a blunt needle
with a fine eye.

Flinching at the stroke
of precious balms,
seeking oils of anointment
for her veiled
and sorrow-crowned head.

Clutched to her chest
is the desert she hid
behind her back,
pleading her chalice filled.

Revive her nomadic,
fertile lips,
for she has longed
and longs to sup.

Porous, dust coated tongue
water-zealous, earth drought mouth.

Has she not been
sapless for years?
Has not the wine drenched
altar of her sins
been adorned with wilted lilies
long enough?

Mercy, mercy,
pledge your salvation

And what of Love?
Love nestles deeply
in sister-ilk spheres of scars.

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