March 18, 2012

poem 86 of a poem a day for 2012

the devil that details each empty cup

there is this witch 
in my room
who has no need to sweep 
or fly with a broom
she has a soul 
hooded like a Sun 
riding red
her hair burns
with a fire 
which is fed 
every child
who yearns to live 
without a fence 
or any stop
of motivation
to give

this poem is ultimately 
about salvation
the more I learn 
the less I know to
return my body's breath
to an eternal empty
should I strive to collect
or at least gather 
in my arms full of protect
as if some bastard Demeter
who never heeded where
the shafts of wheated light
were cut from,every
dark that I needed

here at the very edges
of what I do
without looking back 
or through
is where desire turns my spit
and I realize at last
the iron in my blood is it
this coursing in
each magnetic tide
each fickle fate
each free will
each sickle sate
and as such
I'm always much
too late for dinner
when I rush to find
 a journey's end
that's never 
supposed to stop
just bend

this here sinner
knows all too well
never go to bell
in the woods
alone without
an offering to
the Goddess
and her womb
that waits
to carry full 
and term
me past
every worn mask
and into
that beautiful
loom weave
of shine that
some of you
might still call
 Love's avail

EJR (c)

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