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By darwin Date: 2003 Sep 18 Comment on this Work [[2003.09.18.08.25.20543]] |
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The storm is in my body, as I watch the hastening clouds. The wind cutting lines through my skin and drawing memories. I see you in the dark line of thunder, and I hear your voice as the lightening crashes unbidden. I want to be cleansed in this rain, to feel the water as it clings to my body, washing this sin away. The sin and hope that each seem to cling to me. Your holy book of thought thrown at me time and again. I am not your pulpit. I am not your holy war. Where are the uncertainties you claim, where is the ravage, except in your mind? You can lay me down in the river, and feel my body as it floats to the top. Adorn me with flowers, with lotus. Light some incense to my memory, and set me free. I am not a god of small things and miracles are not in my finger tips. I climbed a mountain to find you, with hands bloody and knees broken, and I found myself instead. I am the virgin to be sacrificed, I am not Europa. You will not carry me away. |