Hacked into the neural network,
the viral voice of the Accuser, fiat
crashing in:
Gliding behind
the altar:
Make room, sinner.
The silver pieces gleam complacently.

The desert dwellers hunger and my lips are dry.
I watch my own hands try to conjure
bread from stones, strike wine from the rock.
Silver glimmers duplicitously.
The microphone amplifies my soundless cry;
my heart is gripped between my teeth.

Fingertip touches tarnish, silver
blushing at its complicity.
Wild beasts lap up wine like blood
and amble away, satisfied and pacified.
In a draught, the candle
For a heartbeat, all I hear is blood
behind my ears:
Just keep praying.

Aside | This entry was posted in poetry and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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