Sometimes your love strikes like the wrath of God
Sometimes it feels like a child
Skinning cats––or crushing beetles in the sand
Behind the garden shed
In the summer before dinner
Oh your fire is red––this severity descends
Upon the heads of
Plebeian peasant scum
To cleanse the earth of all their sins
Against you––your loving presence
Never asked for anything more than clarity
But I am guilty of some dark
And festering tangling thing that
Rots inside my stomach––
It goes on and on and a
Throng surrounds me
Holds me to the ground
'Til you with your sword
And fire come down upon the scene
Crushing skulls––and scattering tongues
Destroying all that’s false and cold and cruel
And in the glorious carnage––the
Rain of blood and locust cast
With awesome righteous certainty...
Your sword it strayed and caught me in the chest.
And what can I say when I’m dead?
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