perhaps it is apt
the first pancake
is always
a disappointment
stodgy
anaemic
without that light
crisped perfection
we've come to expect
it is undercooked
typically
as the ideal
frying time
is gauged
incorrectly at first
it will be
plated with
accompanying pleas
for forgiveness
and absolution
but as penance
someone has to
suffer this
pariah's offering
with each mouthful
comes thoughts
of apology
of atonement
of promises
it will be better
next time

Locked away, in tower grey,
The crime of innocence;
And in the streets, disarray,
Observed from the distance
Of a somber penance:
A sinister interplay.

The Shape of Mourning
by Michael R. Burch

The shape of mourning
is an oiled creel
shining with unuse,

the bolt of cold steel
on a locker
shielding memory,

the monthly penance
of flowers,
the annual wake,

the face in the photograph
no longer dissolving under scrutiny,
becoming a keepsake,

the useless mower
lying forgotten
in weeds,

rings and crosses and
all the paraphernalia
the soul no longer needs.

Keywords/Tags: shape, mourning, bolt, steel, locker, memory, memories, penance, wake, keepsake, memento, rings, crosses, paraphernalia

i’ve dedicated my life
to doing penance
for sins i did not commit.
whose ledger is it
that i am trying to wipe clean?
i toil with desperation, as if on trial,
fruitlessly trying to prove myself
to judge, jury, executioner
that not even i know.
which laws did i break
in the checkered past only i see?
the glass shows a liar and a cheat
an adulterer, a glutton
a sloth, a jealous beast
they all stare back at me
as i try to exonerate them.
they all look like her
and she calls out to me but i cannot hear
she is muffled beneath their cries of innocence.
i shackle myself in their stead
and pay the debts of demons i never knew.

Arising to your fascinating persona,
Sleeping to your colossal heart,
Gasping frantically, to reach the surface,
Trapped underneath the coldest ice, in the widest river,
Shivers down my spine,
Pins and needles through my heart,
Consuming me with fear,
Scared of the rapture,
Inner interrogation of mind,
Acquainting myself of new horizons,
But remaining lonesome and fearful,
Crumbling when in your presence,
Listen to my penance,
Would you be attuned,
To my vulnerable aching heart?

There's a way in which I break for beauties like you. It's a performance piece, not of the egoistic sort, but rather a birthed love-child of servility and altruism. Here's my recipe, if you ever wanted to scrutinise my path to death.

First, i stare. And marvel in awe at the carved beauty of you and wonder how many cities you've inspired.

Second is initiation. A delicate dance to either be executed from a carnal desire or a romantic want. I choose one or another, seldom do I pick both; tho they end the same way.  

Third is the burning period. I will saturate myself with unwarranted loyalty at this point. I morph to their warmth and this is where it gets sick.        

Fourth: obsession. If you look into my eyes you will see a longing to drown and to go back to the ocean that is you. It's potent enough to drive me insane. Consuming.

Fifth, i surrender. I'd ask you to take off that fire. I want you to still exist but to go burn somewhere else. To be a forest-fire that inspires rather than to maim me insolently.

Sixth is penance dressed masochistically. I torture myself for reasons he wouldn't understand or is justified, but I somehow think it's salubrious.

Seventh concerns with the cycle of death. I die for you, over and over again. I choose to do this.

Eighth is where my pain becomes stagnant and transition into ghosts with names.

Ninth better itself to be the point of moving on and building graves on reverence for even having a taste of perfection.

Tenth, I repeat this whole process.