Unholy
There is nothing to say, nothing that hits, nothing that soothes the soul or wipes the pain, the deep mark of red, the great stain. It is printed across her chest, in heavy hard to reach places, deep inner recesses, and misplaced folds, the locks, that only open one way. She had closed her self, bruised upon the earth, in one solid motion,where the wounds were formed, and the deed was spoken; by his hand. One blade. A through cut. She had watched how the first drops had fallen, amazed by the purity of it. Her own hand, half suspended. Half surprised. Recklessly, enthralled. He had cut her- taken the action; and in one fell swoop, their love had fallen. Their histories, had moved like little pieces, in foul motion. like men who fought and swore. So many wars, so many unholy reactions, that sat rough hewn ,closeted,half mourning, and gazing across the waste; as each night her prayers took flight, stumbling their way up to God, in rough spilled tears, and increasingly coarser and more desperate displays, that first froze, and then bled for pity.,in the full glare light upon her tongue. MB
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