Dirty rag doll, twisted body and unravelled seams, she looks for her being deep within heart dust, holding a blunt needle with a fine eye. Flinching at the stroke of precious balms, seeking oils of anointment for her veiled and sorrow-crowned head. Clutched to her chest is the desert she hid behind her back, pleading her chalice filled. Revive her nomadic, fertile lips, for she has longed and longs to sup. Porous, dust coated tongue water-zealous, earth drought mouth. Has she not been sapless for years? Has not the wine drenched altar of her sins been adorned with wilted lilies long enough? Mercy, mercy, pledge your salvation And what of Love? Love nestles deeply in sister-ilk spheres of scars. |
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| Mercy |