I walked past when
men in chain and leather coats
clerked infamy
on the faces of the chosen
Huddled in groups
watching
horses tied to trees and posts
Ears pricked to the cymbal clank-
wafer thud on doors
a death peal pounding
Branching through the hollow halls
We winced as they braced the door
Counting out an abacus
of small conceits
on the chains of broken out beasts
Fear and dread
Left our own clothes red
Pierced by centuried insanities
To gasp as they bled the host.
The night air rent
with feral consequence
Our part in outrage
The conceivable bound
of profane logic
Mixed in flood of innocence
Bruised fruit-a-blighting
Bleeding the very air
A sacrifice no wound can stem
or salt the flow but our own
inanities and mistruth. Pilgrims
sporting ribbons and regrets
Badges we knew, perhaps
we should have worn
Comments
jennifer | June 26, 2008 - 10:54
This line,
'Counting out an abacus
of small conceits'
is just perfect.
As ever, I am going to ask for punctauation all through - your use of it and capitals is rather sporadic, I feel!