Swashbuckle Reprise
This sword drawn overhead
grows lazy in my palm,
as creeds melt away,
remarkably obtuse, slow
on this road that has no turn.
The walls of my mind
are covered in hushed,
unspoken wallpaper,
a mecca, calm as gentle Jesus,
shielded by invisible memories.
My blade becomes a trowel,
a garden hoe, to till
in search of long-buried
love, the dead who know
there is no rage in Heaven.
Tess Kincaid
March 2011
Posted over on her site Willow Manor
Listed as #1 over on Magpie Tales 58
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