Chasuble and Chalice
Shall hold forth no malice
until that great day when the dragon lies
slain by his excellent silver sword.
Cries for help often go unanswered
condemning lost souls to the noisy desperation of
T’is useless to summon the gods of war
as other battles take precedence
Yours is a wailing that echoes throughout time
over the crooks and valleys of a deserted land
waiting for a legion that shall never arrive
Prisoners paraded boils and pockmarked stigmata
marching towards the land of Shades
Neither in this world or fully in the next one.
I fell upon my sweet sweet sword when I heard the dirge
Once I was a Queen my brilliant vivid ruby red velvet purple blue
robes now tattered with scorn…
Now Empress of the dung heap. A loathsome swollen twisted
disfigured mass of fuming flesh aching for renewal while
another round of spittle hits the mark
Badly mangled I creep towards a salvation always just out of reach.
Crimson runs rampant along it’s craggy shores.
Copyright DeBorah Ann Palmer 2015