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your sword is pointed at my neck,
so go ahead and slit my throat.
you'll see no fear in my eyes when you do.
the tip of my dagger already did its job,
and soon, the poison will **** you too.
satan grabbed a broom to brush the bits into a bin

but angels saw the brilliant rays reflect from the sharp pieces scattered on the ground

each splinter carefully gathered and tenderly glued together
God was gifted a beautiful imperfect bottle to collect every precious tear

of one broken soul
Psalm 56:8 "You have collected all my tears in Your bottle...."
i don't know how to not drown in you-
years of unrequited crushes
serving as metaphorical swimming lessons,
minding the gap and
paying the price and
never asking too much
serves me no good in this
ocean of mango arizona,
in the memory
of the taste
of your lips.

around you i am somehow
“kid in a candy store”
“bull in a china shop”
a paradox of platitudes-
endlessly tempted but unable to lose control.

there’s a sweetness to everything about you
except for the taste i get
in my mouth
when you leave.
mango arizona. always.
mental illness is the
most expensive thing
i've ever owned but
never wanted
I name you Pygmalion
because between
my skin and delusion
you have carved
an ivory woman. You
have carved her
with your eyes. But
for all your looking,
you can’t see, little
blind man, that
I have no need
of Aphrodite’s blessing.
In the strength
of my spine
and the flash
of my teeth
and the skill
of my hands, hands
you did not hew,
I hum with
power. The power of being
ferociously alive.
The only thing of mine
you will ever be king of,
King Pygmalion,
is the likeness
you sculpt
in your dreams.
4 Dec 2019
After I hung the moon among the stars
        I made the sun. I made gravity to keep
        it close and motion to keep it distant.
        I made a blue marble and called it Earth.
        I made mankind and the shadows of time.
        Just live and die never knowing why.
        Create church and preachers and sermons.
        Embrace sin. You created forgiveness.
 Dec 2 Christine Ely
Trees are allowed to grieve.

crumpled sorrow falls in vividness

painting the floor

in ruby red blood, rust orange sweat,

decay brown despair.

trees are allowed the luxury of death

reverting back into their core, their roots

escaping the brutal truths winter brings

hardened in the wind

confirmed in the frozen ground they have

rooted in.

festooned in the envious demons they surmounted

trees are allowed to bloom again

triumphant over their darker seasons.

without giving cause

without giving reason.

Perhaps this is the vitality of the forest

the humble and solitary

transformation found in death.
They don't sell second chances at the last gasp cafe
only coffee and stale croissants with sugar in a sachet
and you pay,
how you pay every day that you go
because there is no place that feels
quite like home
than the last gasp cafe when you're all
on your own

And the jukebox plays the top ten from
before you were born, there's
oilcloth on the tables, stained and badly worn,

Marvin who's been there since before there was even there swears it gets quite crowded, but when I go there's no one there,

it's Mandy's life, she's Marvin's wife of forty years and more
and not once in all that time has she ventured through the door that leads down to the sea,
I guess she's scared
might be she's heard
they don't sell second chances at the last gasp cafe.
 Nov 26 Christine Ely
She walked in with the midnight laugh.
Glittering of moon and flowers, being a chaff.

Her eyes: reminiscence of an ancient peridot.
When one looks too deep for too long would get caught.

Like a kite she looks free.
But only one knows she's tied to he.

He who chooses to look proud of owning her magic.
Only the observer knows she seems to lead a life so tragic.

I resent him, more than envy.
For I see her as pretty and he as ****.

I wish to confess to the soft ears, my heart's will.
And take away the sorrow in her mind still.
 Nov 25 Christine Ely
No god, my god, your god, our god;
No matter - we are all deserving of compassion, kindness, and tolerance.

'I begin in the name of God, the Most Compassionate and the Most Merciful.'
This afternoon, I sat at home within an armed police cordon watching live news updates of a mass shooting at my neighbourhood mosque a few hundred metres away. As evening falls and the streets echo with an eerie quiet, my thoughts go out to those who have been directly affected by this gross atrocity, whose sanctuary has been violated, whose families grieve.
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