She’s a flower of burned dirt
with pale and bony legs
- her emaciated thighs
etched with scars.
She’s been cutting to the music
of an inner, minatory choir
- a song of spite-filled sorrow
and perpetual farewell.
Christmas in the shadows
the hopeless hollow-days
in the kind of barren places
where our savior made his way.
The angels mark your passing
and they understand your pain
- when the roll is called in heaven
seraphim will speak her name.
Dec 11, 2021
Dec 11, 2021 at 8:26 AM UTC
She’s a flower of burned dirt
with pale and bony legs
- her emaciated thighs
etched with scars.
She’s been cutting to the music
of an inner, minatory choir
- a song of spite-filled sorrow
and perpetual farewell.
Christmas in the shadows
the hopeless hollow-days
in the kind of barren places
where our savior made his way.
The angels mark your passing
and they understand your pain
- when the roll is called in heaven
seraphim will speak her name.
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