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Literature Text
I slip through the big red door
and up the aisle. The wall sconces
are turned on, and the boiler hisses.
The church is empty, so I kneel
in someone's pew, and bow my head
beneath hanging greenery.
There is one day
left, and the children have placed
the figures in the Créche,
all but the babe.
I try to say my prayers, but he comes out
through the sacristy in purple stole
to say his own, and I seize up.
When he sits, I trip up
to the rail like a billy goat,
chewing on my heart
as if it were a tangy and remorseful tin can.
I pull out my laundry list
and read it, verbatim,
hoping God and the priest will divine
the sincerity of my confession.
At the end of it, I brace myself.
He asks if there is any more,
and I wring my heart
but no more rust spurts out.
I tell him, No, and he says restoring
things that I know I will try
to remember when I leave. Oddly,
he never chides me. I get
a penance, a psalm to say, that I do
say and that I feel a little guilty
over. I am spent.
Walking out, I knock over
an arrangement of pink
and white poinsettias, getting dirt
and dirty water everywhere.
No one sees, and I glance
at the childless Créche, set things
as rightly as I can,
wipe my hands on the backs of my jeans,
and keep moving.
I have this feeling
that I will never sin again
and then I go and do that before
I even get to my car.
and up the aisle. The wall sconces
are turned on, and the boiler hisses.
The church is empty, so I kneel
in someone's pew, and bow my head
beneath hanging greenery.
There is one day
left, and the children have placed
the figures in the Créche,
all but the babe.
I try to say my prayers, but he comes out
through the sacristy in purple stole
to say his own, and I seize up.
When he sits, I trip up
to the rail like a billy goat,
chewing on my heart
as if it were a tangy and remorseful tin can.
I pull out my laundry list
and read it, verbatim,
hoping God and the priest will divine
the sincerity of my confession.
At the end of it, I brace myself.
He asks if there is any more,
and I wring my heart
but no more rust spurts out.
I tell him, No, and he says restoring
things that I know I will try
to remember when I leave. Oddly,
he never chides me. I get
a penance, a psalm to say, that I do
say and that I feel a little guilty
over. I am spent.
Walking out, I knock over
an arrangement of pink
and white poinsettias, getting dirt
and dirty water everywhere.
No one sees, and I glance
at the childless Créche, set things
as rightly as I can,
wipe my hands on the backs of my jeans,
and keep moving.
I have this feeling
that I will never sin again
and then I go and do that before
I even get to my car.
Literature
Never Forgotten
You are pushing...
Trying to erase...
But you refuse to wipe away those words that rest gentle on the lines.
You can't do it.
They are written in pen.
You won't rip the well designed paper either.
You will have to paint over those honest words.
You will always know that underneath those vibrant colours lies a hidden script.
A secret code that whispers in your sleep.
You have become a spy.
Undercover, in your own world.
What are you searching for?
Is it your treasure which you have tucked away?
Hopefully you will find that which you have intentionally lost,
And at its appearance,
You will forget the tears you shed,
And once again remember
Literature
Coddled
don't step on the eggshells
don't look through the gaps
don't ask me what happened
just fill in the cracks
this happens like clockwork
don't worry
please wake me up gently
don't leave me alone
I'm cold and it's dark out
and you're not at home
like clockwork, I need you
please hurry
Literature
Who am I?
Who am I? just a thought.
A thought of infinite length about myself. An eternal idea that I can't express.
I'm a lonely wind that blows away every touch. With no other gift than being incorporeal, temporary.
Not a single rest, not a single smile for the lonely being.
Trapped on my desire begging for a hug, a kiss.
Who am I? a monster. A monster with one thousand faces, all of them scary, all of them "fucked up".
I am the nightmare, my nightmare. A dream of blood and sorrow, a dream of loneliness and spikes.
A dream in which I hurt the ones I love and everybody, seeking revenge, try to erase me.
Who am I? The sadness. The pain. The ra
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Written for AllPoetryIsGolden 's 100 Themes Challenge. Not meant to so much be a comment on Religion or The Nature of Sin or any big thing like that, but rather a comment on my own attitudes toward those things. I've been questioning some of the Big Things I think about lately, and this story is based on some of those questions.
Do I need to flesh this out some more? Does the "Christmas" aspect of it tie in enough? Thoughts on the title?
Do I need to flesh this out some more? Does the "Christmas" aspect of it tie in enough? Thoughts on the title?
© 2014 - 2024 fernknits
Comments6
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It doesnt scream Christmas, but I don't think it needs to. Again your imagery in this poem allows the reader to recreate the scene in their own mind without being lead too much, imho.