St Anthony’s Fire
erratic cross-stitch,
bellies braided into a jerk of snakes.
a scream cuts through the dance,
begging the wicked centrifugal fury to stop,
and yet the danse macabre
yanks and twinges us,
untill we are rotten as leaves
that grope each other’s dogeared yelps.
bruised, clattered, lacerated, mangled, falling
the holy fire lifts us,
and we shriek without sound,
locked in the torturous rigor
of a zealous conglomerate.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment