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June 28, 2013


I dreamt of you and I at a wedding.
Where the living married the dead.
The crowd threw wild roses.
Still with their thorns and still with their heads.
The bride and the groom kissed between twisted horns.
Whilst we sat and watched from the steps.

The ring on her hand was of iron.
And the wheel on his back was of clay.
The priest screamed his orders to order.
Marched the crowd down to the bay.

There by the shore they stacked pieces.
Of the church where the wedding had been.
Built a pyre from the wood, as the sea lapped the sand.
And prayed to The Whore and The Thief.
The bride and the groom stepped onto the fire.
And embraced one another in flames.
The priest screamed his sermon, to chaos.
But the crowd had all forgotten their names.

“My sons and my daughters”.
“Love the Lion and the Lamb”.
But his relevance had long been surpassed.
The crowd wanted blood.
And they drank it in floods.
And the water was black with the ash.

We walked hand in hand down the bridle.
And we sat on our own by the graves.
All those names, all that stone.
All so terribly alone.
The shame of those left.
Of the past.
So I laid you down low.
There, where the wild heather grows.
And I knew by the way.
That the world turned to grey.
That only the soil could last.


From → Poetry

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