... poetry ...

curse

there is a curse in me
handed down from on High,
no weapon formed against
me will prosper, but
the blade will bring
blood, nonetheless.
“Good God, there’s fire
shut up in my bones.”
and all their songs
have lost their savor

there is a hex tattooed
into my flesh –
a withered oak;
discontentment
whose sour fruit
ripens to rot
and feeds those
who choose to
live in such
triviality;
filled with rot,
but fed

it is akin to
that nearly silent
midnight conversation
each of us has with ourselves
to convince ourselves
that the madman is not hiding
behind the shower curtain-
just as he bursts out,
knife in hand.

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