Penance

 
 
 
 
 
For all the painful people
wondering why god has forsaken,
hanging sorrows from a silent
winter tree,
entreating penance.
Dammed, your blood does not flow
pure.
Never cleans congenital wounds.
Festering.  Poisoning.
How can you know clarity?
Peace
only equated with
disguise.
I can not reach you
through your pain,
through my pain,
through the loud, piercing
blows, the cacophony
of cause and effect.
Ruined fields
seeded with glass.
Beautiful prism spires grow,
in gradations.  Take quiet stance 
upon neglected plains.
Someday awed children will cavort among
colorful rays,
spread tall tales in their splendor.
All we can see
is razorsharp teeth so tender
to bleeding flesh.
.
.
.
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