Requiem for the Flesh
When the lost one is draped in choked briars, and the revolutionary footsteps mark the awash land as unholy, the oracle cannot but wish to dismantle that which has befouled the grounds that were never supposed to reach anciency.
To what is yearned and sought, the flesh beholds an interdiction. If the tree were a conveyor of pomegranates and not an attainable fruit to incisors and canines, as nectarine is, how deeper would the sin have sunk?
In my very own understanding, the measure taken provides a parallel force of retaliation. The pomegranate is a crawling sailor adrift at sea, imploring to be guarded and held. Within that sainthood, however, is a violent shed of wish. It takes a scrupulous palm, tainted by the inevitability of youth, to strip the aril windows from their homeland.
How rooted would the entombed paradise be to the subsoil when the miscreants take their loving memory and turn it into defiance? When the gates are slowly drifting away, the shallow bite stands upon the commencement cemetery of patience and diligence.
For that, I chase the riddle of an apocryphal exodus. I may be embittered and coerced into falling like a prophet would, but divinity cannot be gifted once the inherency is altered. I feel as though this chamber has not fleshed out of its slumber cavity.
The mosaic flesh binds the violation within the crystalline ceramic, and the performed art can never be thwarted. The blood is still slain on a mattress present long before humankind’s first blaze, guileless still and indiscreet. For all the candled signs of time are to fall as the wax reunites with its histrionic enemy.
Why does the flesh carve out the shrouded moon and gouge the regolith off its dusted abode, then expect the disintegration of stone into a cordial guise? When your vacancy compels you to redeem the unbraided sector, you cannot but bear more hollowness as you untie a stranger’s flesh.
I must flee, but this memory retains me within this frame. I have a severed maidenhead watching over my apostasy, doing so from a martyred springline window. Am I more suited to eclipse reincarnation or haunting?
But my sanctification comes unexecuted when I am the torment of every progeny that has provided me a ritual. Their daggers were but a withdrawal from concord, and my spleen was the instrument.
Birth is not a twin to life; their features only symptomize with blood. I fear that with the cloaking of my poignant fingerprints, and the clouded layer of my lips, my flesh attenuates and skeletonizes yet never escapes.
Desolate and swamped in porcelain, my wings now penetrated by their own sister feathers. And the primary coverts would hereticize the secondary, and all I am left with is a question of being: From where did that arched trail of gold rise from? Its origin now maimed and colored by the Hebrew of Adam, its weight now taking over what is not yet devoured of me.
Blood is the color of the battle and the created newborn. How I wish that the binding gold, sewn betwixt the meeting of my wings, would mold me a statue. All it did was make me a ground of exploited resource.
My calves are moth-eaten, and I still know not if my wounds are the neglected spades in an audience’s play. Is it the clemency the flesh seeks from me or is it the tedious memory?
The dispossession of the heir may have soothed the scythe from yielding a longed for sabbath, but it is my unsettled flesh that has witnessed the plague. And I casted out the light from the window for there is nothing more dreadful than sight. A pigeon mistook the transparency for life and struck itself for the sake of entry.
And I obtained the forbidden lullaby, where the pigeons once have sung of human transgressions. Now I know of how betrayal calls out their names, and how the abandonment has left them destitute.
My flesh, as is others’, has abused their messenger claws, of which wars have seen. The lovers’ balconies and detected maladies. For now, they are landless and awaiting the human path, still.
God of Jonah, with his forty days and nights, and the whale never once desiring unleavened bread, why is it that we have forgotten its sacrifice and gone astray from the waters?
My varicose veins, frosted with the path of ache, mauve and bridged to translucency. Everything about me antagonizes this Delphian cold and pursues the wisteria.
I am seen, wondering about the sophistication of sin and its sanction, the dedication taken for it, and for that I shalt ask again: Is the comfortably bitten nectar equivalent to the faithful amount of care and force needed by the pomegranate to be shredded and eaten?
Was the sin appetite or curiosity? When all I am is my spilt blood, and the flesh succumbs to decay, will it remember my warmth?
Were we casted out of hunger or knowledge? When all I am is a wasted pond, I have just escaped this dictating form through my blood.
