Sunday, December 4, 2016



by Emily Woodham

(For my friend who mourns. I love you.)

slips down the threads woven
slips down my feet upon them
pendulous, air is tight
lungs compressed, I breathe

dark treads on luminescence
dark moves the beating rapid
closing in, choice is nothing
single path, no turning

prostrate, silence echoes
prostrate, pain relentless
fragmented faith clings
hardened hope yearns

lifting to a scarred Face
lifting to a pierced Hand
the bitter cup stays
no solace, save in consuming

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