holy ground

You used to be such a better writer, kid,
Back before your skin had turned to steel,
Before the world had thrown its punches
Straight into your guts and left bruises
That hardened into armor.

You used to plant flowers for the sheer
Vicariousness of it; it seems now that,
Having grown older, you have traded them
For perfect brown boxes, the contents of which you know
Down to the molecule. There is nothing of
The ghosts of your past in your words anymore,
Only the straightened spine, the metal of
The capital-T Truth.

There is still grace setting the world
On fire. Take off your shoes and feel its heat.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s