Poetry – Sacrament

July 24, 2011



My own breath on my own skin. I hold my neck and

squeeze the flesh between the bone. Feel the pulse,

the blood filled with dark complexity, throbbing

just below the surface of my own skin. Blood

taking on pollution all the time. Building it.

Collecting it. Trying to burn it off but losing, ever

falling behind. And I feel my skin. Its dryness.

I drink a thousand litres. As satisfied as I can ever feel,

it is not enough. My own skin, my own blood,

thirsts for more. My breath, each and every one.

I feel the life draining from me, morbidly snatching

the air from within. I inhale over and over, a sacrament

never enough to fill. A piece of me ever flies away,

un-catchable. These small sacrifices we make everyday towards

our greatest payment. As still as I can be, as motionless,

nothing can resist this juggernaut of non-existence.

It stands above us, un-seeable, just standing. Casting

an indomitable shadow that everyday we ignore

for our own mind and peace. We are arrogant

as we can only be in the presence of true greatness.

I can only think these thoughts are pretentious but honest.

I squeeze my skin one last time and let go, rubbing

the surface as my pulse settles and fades once more.

Feeling the blood disappear and not settle, but brooding

just like these thoughts below the surface of my own skin.




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