flame and blade:

I raised the fruit to my lips,

it danced like ash on my tongue.

Sweetness once ran down my chin.

Collected like blood under nail.

What have you to offer?

The acrid stench of death,

it whispered in my ear.

Described the veil as tattered,

nailed to the dirt.

I can’t help but imagine Christ.

Arms spread wide as if to embrace.

Would you carry my sin as well?

My flesh hangs off in ribbons.

Decorated for a show of mortality.

Reach into my open maw,

as with hell’s mouth

made of flame and blade.

We could sanctify this ground.

Any place I spill my blood is holy.

We sow the seeds of tomorrow.

To grow trees heavy with ripened fruit.

Hanging from the branches like gallows.

It will surely slake your hunger,

without any providing joy.