False Pretenses

Today Sherri Casey guest blogs for Josh Bytwerk.

wintersun

Night skies separate,
we call it sun
and wait for warmth.

Rubbing our hand together
waiting for the blood
to return.

Icicles take shape
on our fingertips
and we jab at eyes
still blind.

We enter the temple,
in orderly formations,
this shrine overcome
by shadows of mountains,
cold settling in,
looking still for warmth.

Blankets lay among the ruins
and we lay down
spreading our legs
receiving our castration
from the hands of the present
and past;

Turning over to perform
the ritual act
on others who come,
becoming hands of the present
and past.

Hiding in the shadows
we tell of things unknown,
self-fulfilled prophecies
fill our mouths, our ears, our nostrils.

It is sweet to our eyes,
and bitter to the senses
which remain alive.

Come out of your temples!

We hear the cries
of those on the mountains,
still climbing,
not impotent.

We click our tongues,
shake our heads,
wonder at the straining muscles
and wounded hands.

Icing down our own stitches
where once life began,
and now is no more.

Unaware of the vacancies
In our temples
In our bodies
In our words.

Idols don’t speak.

Followers do.

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