In the still morning air,
churches rise, stone buttresses,
the bones of saints.
You finger each of my words,
the click of rosary beads.
Outside our window,
wagons clack, sheets flap,
squares of white, windows to something purer.
We sleep curved around each other,
the cool taste of spoons.
Only there is no longer anything
for us to eat. I slip away from your arms.
But I can only give you this, a light so clear
we don't have to be who we are.
Purity, desires and identity
The analogy of church and saints' bones is keen.in fact, the saints claim, or the founders claim that the saints were, the founding of the church. That is actually religiious fervor and hype. Nonetheless, you chose a good comparison. The incursion of words, probably prayer, and rosary is nice work. I feel sharply that some depth of thought is in this. The private setting that follows was full. Wagons clacking, sheets flapping,spoons and intertwined bodies. No food, only light. Altogether, it was a unique romantic work and presented in a fresh style. And by the way, right! We don'thave to be who we are.
The Artist thought this was FAIR
3 out of 4 deviants thought this was fair.