Bruises

Are momentary roses,
Are apples in the garden of sin,
Are prayers and sin on the skin,
Are gospels of ghosts and gyzyms,
Are palpable the holy of halos,
Are halos the sizes of silverwares,
Are altars of devotion,
Are altars of desecration,
Are craters on the flat lands of the country,
Are flat lands in the country of the body,
Are the body whose angels are not free,
Are the blood and soul whose alchemy
Are silence and stillness stillborn,
Are the fossils and the fission
Of a hieroglyphic heart,
Are the body’s way of saying:
Enough,
I am hurt.
This pain is making me blue.
God’s touch is making me
Blue.

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