A Holy Rhythm. {poetry}

A smattering of applause
Chattered into the slight sway
Of this breath
His earthen exalt
And laced the drought
The fray and flog of his sun-split skin
Struck and stung
With blooming
Browning buds
Of long and lonesome age
Yet scouring
And surging in sands and seas
Of incessant trills and ticks
Is a secreted soul of youth
Swollen, sane, and maddening within his breast.

A smile dipped and drudged his careworn cheek
As his eyes flowered
Softly with a fine and fragranced breath
That sewed
Whispers of what was he
That wail and weep into this his holy spirit
Swilling his blemished flesh
Like the purest purgatory

To lithe and nimble age
He bowed
And manacled to weary wrists
Was time borne
Ribbed and righteous
Like the ruin of an untried oak
Consuming his breath
His flesh stretching across his sane and Sacred years
Now but whispers
Thin and breathy
Like parchment
Their weight clinging to his teeth
As now they lay like corpses atop his tongue.

He spoke sagely
With their cured and clinging breath
Their vapor tasting like vinegar
Veiled atop his seared and serviced lips
That bore beautifully
The Eternal being
The birth and rebirth of his human heart.
He is as the dust
Of every age
Gently breathed and bled
Into the veins of this life
In wisdom born
Of purpose clenched and condemned into his palms
Like roots that coil in the sinew of his skin
To ageless fate he must answer
To destiny he swears
Toiled in his Father’s flesh is the endlessness of search
The sear of swords
And the bruise of blades
That meet what?
Inevitability perhaps?

For all his outward flaw
For the sentence of wrongful age
That trails atop his skin like thread from the loom of youth
Faded and fleeting
For all this, a due process of trial and retrial
His breath yet tastes hauntingly
Of smoke that lends and likens
Empty of pomp or pretense
From a mind
Ignited by the suns and strains of years past
And by days
Tangled with the sky
Like lovers’ limbs
And from decades known nakedly
In the untamed tryst
Of youth
Planting and pining
Into a soil that blooms boy into man
And bird into beast
The earth still settles
In his bones and battered breath
Like all the winds of years passed
That he can taste like the keening howl of a frail and fading wolf
And tremoring
Vital for all its invitality

To age he finally cries
Cruelly, he limps atop time,
Crippled only in the throes of its touch
Fighting and fleeing the throngs
That have descended into its cold and callused crypt

He stands of years and yet
In the ether of age,
The wither of days
Sewn just there upon his cheek
Forgotten in humanity his own
Not knowing that what is human
is owned yet by none of mortal’s mire.
His soul surging still in creed and current
Teeming with life and lived
That leaks in tributaries
From these
His wreathed and wizened eyes
On lips
And pruned
With tales nestled so deeply
In what has been seen
By his flooded and fathomed
Fearless and founded flesh

He stands as one
One might
One man or morgue
To One he answers
But to what question,
To what age, it is not known
For upon his final breath
Sour and soiled by death upon his lips
His answer withers
And falls like leaves
That decay before they crumble
In vestigial creak atop his silent breast.

His being lists
By those who shout
Who sink and drown
In the pride and plunge of a humanity
That is not altogether
Or maybe even slightly

Crowned of thorns
And hidden
Only by hands of time and hallowed skin
Bruised and battered
With the terrible and striking
Bleeding gnash of time and temp
Is an ageless,
Almighty soul
Absolved at last
He disappears like vapor
Startling into flight my thirstless breath
As only time can taste
And tame
And tread upon a thankless trance.
And he
In an algorithm ancient to this, my youth,
Succumbed to the fever
The swelter of a sure and seamless eternity
Of what
My yawning yearn
Knows ever not
For the answers that lay in flesh atop his bones
Dissipated like a damning dust
As earthen I remain
As answered he ascends.


EmilyPurcellEmily Purcell views writing as an orgasmic means of self-destruction and the truest form of beauty to tangibly exist: as a salve of ink and eloquence to soothe her soul. She first realized that she could write when her 7th grade teacher brought her dog to class and told her to “Write a story about her! Get to it!” and hasn’t looked back. Poetry, she believes, chooses its vessels into written word from birth and that she was gifted its scarlet essence, born with the extraordinary duty to be that medium. When asked why she writes, Emily answers, “It is how I know. It is how I breathe.” Emily thrives from written word and it often consumes her into the wee hours of the night. It burns electric in her veins and she seeks only to ignite the world with it: a monumental task, but a goal that finds its sinew atop her bones. She is a student in her home state of Virginia and enjoys emails, feedback, and any correspondence with others! You can reach her via email and follow her on Instagram.


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