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
placating grace.
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
belaboring grace.
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
postulating will.
We sacrifice lambs on Calvary’s hill.


This poem was reprinted at The Bees Are Dead, an awesome dystopian transatlantic e-zine.

Posted by Jason Ramsey

Christian. Dad to five, including two sets of twins. Husband to favorite person. Guy behind ALTARWORK and Amity Coalition. Interests: mental health advocacy, social equality, religious freedom. Writing featured at Patheos, Venn Magazine, The Bees Are Dead, The Mudroom, My Ink Dance, ALTARWORK, and more. Leading by leaps of faith and grace. Exposing goodness every day.

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