Endgame

Bind me to the sharpened tree,

the sacred sword you made of me,

tie me with my son’s insides,

poison me and more, besides,

bind me to the blade, a shade

of loathing left to die,

and empty me of laughter, fade,

where Ragnarok’s shadows lie,

for I am the poem’s final line,

the great song, absent sound,

I am the dead gods’ death, divine,

I am Loki, bound!

 

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Again

I return to the scene,

my heart, forever trapped

in those never ending moments

that eclipse all other memory,

the poetry of your kisses,

tickling me with whispers –

like ships that sail

on fantasy.

I snatch specific seconds

from random reflections,

remembering the trembling,

but not whether it was adrenaline;

or the fear of not touching you

again.

 

Inside Suicide

They sought the shadow in the shell,

telling stories of her youth in hope

the memories would remind her,

but the kind were blind and the rope

twitched, she kicked without falling,

silently calling for someone to kill her past,

and, at last, there was peace without pain,

the strain ceased, released, she danced her last.

 

Divine Offering

My corrupted conscience,

a gift to gods at odds

with their religion.

The shrike strikes

a bargain,

the grim harvest,

offered

to the empty coffer

at the alter,

altering the faltering footsteps

of a faith –

fallen on hard times.

Again, the view of empty pews,

greets the chaplain.