poem: atop the bones of dead saints

27 Sep

we place stones one by one
atop the bones of saints
felled by the voices of disbelief
and disintegration –
and no more to dance
in fields laid flat by the footsteps
of hooligans and martyrs,
carrying their flames and fears
within the clench of trembling hands –


i wait in my gray walled cell,
surrounded by barbed wire and prison dogs –
my debt still due to a society
that no longer holds faith in anything more
than the thickening cock held
before their anguished lips –


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