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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2199735-Chalice
Rated: 18+ · Poetry · Experience · #2199735
Half empty? Half full? Half holy? It runneth over not.
Where pathways forked in twain,
thrice I've trod a third, earthen lane
and crossed many a burial mound,
by Poseidon, turned clay.

Bent branches running rife,
they bifurcate the tree of life,
'til they wither and kiss the ground
as Gaia has her say.

Broken barrel binders!
Bent boughs! Rebirth! SILENCE!
Fret I shan’t! Feel I can’t!
Here, "never free," I'll always chant!

Raging remnants revel in riling realities...

Life's slain me slowly,
besieged this palace;
it's fine, someday I'll be at peace.

I've held a holy,
half-empty chalice
and learned to play these roles with ease.

Woken willow winders!
Whispers! Chaos! VIOLENCE!
Light bringer! Night singer!
Blood-rhymes in rime! Fields of cinder!

Raging remnants revel in riling realities...

I'd lived but six years
when He came, the Beast;
tasted life, then FUCKED for reals.

For once, hear my praise
heed my prayers, please;
let twenty-eight mark my release.

"Zeus? Perkele? Odin? Ra?"
— nope, seems there is nobody here.

"La ilaha ill-Allah?"
— my Arabic's not quite near.

My name, Joel: 'Yahweh is God,'
— He's pretty much dead, I fear.
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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2199735-Chalice