Weak and wet, we'll fall from grace
and land on shining silver trays
and tongues
that lash and lick lay
inside of mouths that hesitate
to let their words fall out,
and from their broken, dripping jaws
if ever there should come a call
or cry
for anything at all
we'll beg their heavy hands to crawl
and drag their shaking legs
to find a picture of a sky
in which there is a God aligned
to hear
their scarcest, weakest whine,
that pity-drizzled closing line
they've come to know and love.















Comments
I feel like I've been you.
Gripping and graphic, I quite like it.
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