Orphans of the Dark

They say it is forgivable 

They speak of knowledge and separation

Of metal carved harder than steel,

They speak of bleach and of a sun that churns souls into fire

Of mad mental pain, 

Of swills and dram and long fading durges that fill the lazy airs of nocturnal wilderness

They talk of a Love where words curve out the appetite and eyes make slaves of love

They talk of the womb and of worship

They speak the praise of destiny while we remain blind and orphans of dark unwelcome streets.

And morning dares us to wake its hound again

It arrests us with a long day's funeral 

All the same awaiting at the rise 

The bride. the hero, the reluctant salesman at the door

They speak of the moon as if by god it lights the reins of hope, leading us, not into the meek intention but into the prayers of our past.

Into the spirits when we cried for the living and when we knelt to heaven with the knowledge that it too was long in the tooth.

And what of our father's sins?

What of the days that showed through our clothes and the nights that hovered over our guilt and into the deep wounds of our birth.

We, the degrees of midnight,  gathered into circles with dark willing tongues

Boasting our poverty to the ends,

Young of heart and free to roam the yellow stalks of the midwestern roads. 

We of wild mind and nakedness

Bound to paper and to our love affair of martyrdom

Bound, we of the uncertain 

We of the willingness and frail load,

Bound when we accept our freedoms as we accept our lost paradise,

The outstretched paw like a straggled rat...

The insolent love that showers us daily in the wet layers of the mind and reality

And with a final swift reverence we claim that we indeed

 must love and live the world forgivable...

We must be willing and swallow our thirst

We must make a bridge to spew our foam into rapids 

And our poison into fine mist

And our repetition will go before us

The mind so journeyed, that to forgive or amend our way

Is to be that first darling bird 

Or that first dying branch of winter

Willing on the frosted limb

A sacrificial nobility...

It is our calling from the mire to the mountain

And back around where thoughts are

Sprung in fine redemption.

Into suffering underling

Into uncoiled love and where

 Here, we are

At last winged 

Free to ache 

To kneel 

To bring our fears into focus

Yes!

At last that final ascension

At last

We speak our minds

uncouth and willing and drunk

Then, we take our leave and with a blink our sins are

as well and as 

Bright as the lashes of Heaven

Author's Note

Still a wip

Reviews

[Gypsy Warrior Queen]

We all want forgiveness...we all want clarity...but do we really want to pay the price.....no, not really....in honesty we all know straightforward that even the achers and the kneelers fear that cost. I don't know...I want to believe that we are worthy of forgiveness....but I know it is never that simple.