~let it burn

prose poetry

Let it die, let it burn on the funeral pyre from which it was resurrected

It was my mistress far too long, but never my muse

Let the satin and tulle curl drifting smoke into the night sky

 where it can twirl under heaven’s grace for one last dance

 

No, comes so easily, particularly when dripping from the lips

of those who believe they speak on behalf of angels, but Benjamin knows

angels fall, and the sunlight is buried somewhere no one can see

distorted and mangled visions for a price, never come free

 

Torn in half, repressing the seething, clotting the bleeding

soccer mom smiles, righteous indignation, imitating the Cheshire cat

  waiting to say those words, loaded like a .357

“Sorry”

ah is it better now?  Are you justified as you put me

…beneath your heel?

Golden p***y and eating unmade Jello-O prevailed

 another heroine thin, bleach blonde sexual success story

  

Please tell me … for I lack a basic understanding apparently

how do the messengers of angels say no?

And who tore off your alabaster, ripped your spirit from you

   that you only see my skin, or the measure of my sanguine ties

not my practice or my heart?

     Burn the satin and the tulle in the fire

 

Let them dance one more time… twisting in the night sky

    the dance of the Courts was always my w***e.

 

©  Katherine Wyatt   All rights reserved  2016