Skip to content

WLTM Vulnerable Woman (The Man in Black, Still Life and Drunken Bruises)

August 5, 2013

ninetyfour

Mother Mary, Mother Mild.
If I can’t be loved.
Let me be reviled.
Not this nothing.
Not this meekness.
Not this terrifying weakness.

Let me lose and leave behind.
Upon a cross, my useless manners.
These songs of sodden courage.
Loss is cruel but hope is crueler.
And let those last words echo sooner.
Spoken by your pinioned child.
“They know not what they do”.
In the dusty rooms of virgin’s minds.
That they might be blind and dull and happy.
No more need.
Schizoid fucking embolism.
No more waiting.
No more birdsong in the prison.
No more days to waste.
And no more dreams to chase.
No more cards to stamp.
Here’s your shovel and here’s your lamp.
Let’s get this bastard risen!

Advertisements

From → Poetry

Leave a Comment

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: