Self Preservation Behind the Sacristy


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What good has it done?

…the pressure,

…the deriding,

…the mountains,

…the mole hills.

I have read the leather books, as requested.

Obedience does not stand still.

In dark seriousness,

all is not fair in love and war.

So little known of,

a women’s scorn.

Of matter,

harsh

and

shuttered,

the rooms that made us who we are.

The passage to tranquility, a distance too far.

The broken bough, a fine line of scars.

I have hunted my state…

the town fairs,

country stores,

mildewed bogs,

and,

so much more.

I have rummaged by the drunk nuns behind the sacristy.

Shame the only word found befitting

a tapestry of travesty.

Once upon a time,

I was led to believe there had been no way out.

After all, it takes years to break the doubt.

Step by step,

the unbinding of provincial doors.

Pen to paper,

my own book of revelations.

Testaments and edens of martyred manifestations.

A self-appointed release from damnation.

 

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