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Chris Saitta Jul 20
The ancient way across this world lies like sunset over black pearls,
The treetops are marble-made that the riffler of wind deforms,
To know all mother tongues from the quarry of rough stones,
To speak everything at once, Bride of Unbecoming,
The moldering walls of lips, the kiss of vacant streets
And the quiet, wet solitude bespoken by back roads,
The whispered origami of the Forum, paper gods in folds,
Smothered in the false pillows of their own repose,
The wolf’s beard dipped in the fresh pant of dewfall,
While lovers have placed on the stones of the Appian Way
Their perfect hearts like votive candles, cupping the flames,
Looking down the swift arrow of loneliness, Sagittarius its same
Heaven-glow and besprinkled guidepost of a starlit Sacred Way.
Mother of Rome, your powdered face has been made ashen by those
Unreturned home, your far-off travels lead only to the graves of sons.
The ancient way across this world lies like sunset over black pearls.
TL Chesterton Sep 2019
Bring forth the rite of war
But of self sacrifice
I'd throw myself on his blade
If it brought you a mite of love for me.

I'd sacrifice myself in field of battle,
Enraging my brawny, tawny ways,
And sacrifice myself to he,
Who makes me wish I hadn't messed up
Chris Saitta Sep 2019
She walked out of the watercolor storm of a fresco
Like a cowl-bound form in a light drizzle of rain,
Her mosaic tiles of ancient lovers’ eyes, ceramic-borne,
Just as her hips held the curves of the urn, kiln-fired,
The coiled heat of Greece still stinging through her flesh.

For her, the treetops had been the summoners of storm,
In kind, she poured down the wet grove of her hair, electral,
Pantheress of humid breath and fanged flair of lightning,
Tamed once in the cloudy cage of Pentelic marble of the Parthenon.

But the world piled dust before her, baiting with its groveled roads,
For her black mullings, much-tasted rain, and heaven’s leaves to fall.
If only the Michelango-to-come had carved the clouds of her
For the light to remain, shining its centuries,
Then maybe the thunder would have been left undone.
Amelia Jan 2019
Some days you wish you were a vengeful god
Rising from your sorrow, stormy-eyed and
Silver-plated.
See who I am, you would say. Look how I
Swell at the hardships of my adversaries.
But you are too naked.
Sprung from the earth-
Mortal -
soft as soil worked by worms.
Yet a fantasy is planted there
Seedless though it is.
Sacrificing demons should be a ritual
By now
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