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A genuflection
to varnished wood
engrained with the blood
of redemption.
The urge to spit.
Surreptitious lips
blessing white linen.
Dust writhes and twists
teased by a pillar of fire.
She built a bridge
from the pews to the pulpit;
I turned
my own spit,
scored a hit which
extinguished the candle.
Still hearing the hiss
reverberate long after.
The ghost of it lit
nails in a broken fist
as fixed as stigmata .
<Deleted User> (6315)
Wed 2nd Nov 2011 08:17
Reads well Ray.. x
Good poem!
i like this a lot x
Philipos
Tue 1st Nov 2011 17:04
Eloquently atmospheric I'd say. Conjures up the mood quite well and the sense of church.
Ah the irreverence of youth and creeping doubt of certain older un's. Although I like the thought that souls become twinkling stars. Dream on Philipos.
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Ray Miller
Wed 2nd Nov 2011 19:45
Thanks all.I can't really decide how best to arrange this. Four verses of 5 lines was a last minute alteration. The urge to spit should be on its own, for instance.