I could hear the choirs songs as they rang from the steeples
and that morning the pneumatic frequencies of those opalescent voices
left deeper scars in our hill sides
than the gunpowder ever dreamed.
Carving up the sockets of our youth,
I could feel the restraint of their hands
as mine were freezing.
Offering me only your body as salvation
I was drowning in the thick stench of nicotine
I used to cover your unfortunate forgiveness.
A forgiveness that tapes tongues to cyanide walls
A forgiveness that leaves a thick coat of bitterness on the throat.
A forgiveness that I can no longer stomach-
You're coughing up cancer
and I can't choke it down fast enough.
Hail Mary.
Hail Mary.
Mother to a war between pews,
and a mis rendering of youth.
They said blame not the miss loved boy
but the gun in his best Sunday suit.
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 4:25 PM UTC
I could hear the choirs songs as they rang from the steeples
and that morning the pneumatic frequencies of those opalescent voices
left deeper scars in our hill sides
than the gunpowder ever dreamed.
Carving up the sockets of our youth,
I could feel the restraint of their hands
as mine were freezing.
Offering me only your body as salvation
I was drowning in the thick stench of nicotine
I used to cover your unfortunate forgiveness.
A forgiveness that tapes tongues to cyanide walls
A forgiveness that leaves a thick coat of bitterness on the throat.
A forgiveness that I can no longer stomach-
You're coughing up cancer
and I can't choke it down fast enough.
Hail Mary.
Hail Mary.
Mother to a war between pews,
and a mis rendering of youth.
They said blame not the miss loved boy
but the gun in his best Sunday suit.
Request permission to use this poem