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This poem was published a year ago in Transition magazine.


Bondage

The foul stench of familiar sweat
on haggard skin, face the colour
of a thundering sky, small teeth falling
from a shattered mouth.

When it was only angry words
forgiveness was simple, the promise
believed, ritual
born.

Then, just as the steady shuffle
of the devout will wear down
the stone steps to an altar
habit replaced faith,
resignation
living.

The teeth only bounce once
when they hit the floor.



Waiting for the Angels to Fall from the Sky
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