It's your write

These aged feet dragged

over folds of the earth

And shifting sands, from whom the hands

of History claw at my feet.

Grabbed. Stuck still.

He drowns me in you;

your sight, your smell,

filling a phial of felton poison

Against my will.

Today, the sun tangles through the tree

and  on lush fielden green grass

this carrion stands. A cage of bones,

bubbled wrapped in rolls of fat.

Pulsating thick flesh cuddled

closed to this locked heart.

He sits in these locked walls,

not seeing they are of glass.

Eyes stop at those iron bars

of fortitude, strength. Success.

But when that phial shatters,

crushed,

he will hurt first.

The fragmented glass cannot shear

these bars of iron that you see.

This carrion, it will stay strong.

The packaging will melt, writher, burn as the poison seeps

on and on through folds of flesh

till, devoured and smouldered, all gone.

The acrid smoke, the aftermath of a broken heart,

embitters the earth, but the thick soft flesh returns to Him,

in druid dales.

The earth will quiver

Start, arise.

New birth. 

Submitted by R.Oberjine (roberjine@hotmail.co.uk)