Wednesday, September 19, 2012

The Bow



Trouble my heart
Grind the nape of my neck under grisly grace nails
Remove my footing
Falter my assurance and rattle me with doubt

Defeat me.
Scourge these arid planes where remorse
Left, holding hands with pure youth.
This desert bleeds vile fumes

Shatter the swindled glass of a thief
With your hammer blow these weak hips
Pronounce obeisance; downturned palms, covered knees
Fortify; drive my face in to the earth.



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