Waning appetite of faith-junctions betrothed.
Relaxing, embracing tapestries lost.
Misplaced versions of stark archetypes,
leaning, beleaguering, vacating thin veils
of guilt-shed sin on vandalized walls.
We wait. Fake. Deface.
Glorified perversions of angst-ridden blame,
an upheaval of martyrdom
We wait like frost-white dalliances of hate.
Mirrored truths of disingenuous praise.
Succumbing, shedding insidious skin.
Forlorn ashes of dead souls,
simmering, frothing, bequeathing tastes
of half-sighed lies on brittle-dry lips.
We drink. Sink. Relinquish.
An artifact of fate
We claw like wolf-thieves approaching the gate.
Repenting diatribes of angelic malaise.
Atoning, dethroning serpentine reign.
Heralded saints of banished restraint,
bleeding, careening, embattling faith
of deaf-toned harps on bleak magistrates.
We pour. Scowl. Implore.
An advocate of priesthood
We sacrifice lambs on Calvary’s hill.
This poem was reprinted at The Bees Are Dead, an awesome dystopian transatlantic e-zine.