• Marcel Wormsley


Quietly we dwell in our secret places And carry on nameless, Forbidden from likeness, And then a branch falls to the meadow below, Bursting into multifarious little pieces, Complex and diversified,

Each bearing a misshapen face With eyes desperately gasping for something lovely again, Or at least stable and unshifting and without pain. Mouths have crumbled into serrated grimaces That do not speak.

They must number in the millions now, Whirling, bobbing and cracking beneath our feet. We kick them away but they return More frenzied and grotesque as ever. Soon they will consume us whole

And we will suffocate under their weight. We will bear faint visions of fingers interlocked And voices lifted in togetherness That will soon dissipate into the unremitting thinness Of eternal sequestration.

What is the Promised land but an island of rank desolation, Populated by naught but a vast canopy of naked men Reduced to categories, bound together by ropes and chains Lying prostrate in the sun?

Where will this child go to find shelter from a broken womb, Pierced by the branches that continue to fall? The old woman will surely speak life into this lost seed Once she arises from the dust of darkened corners And partial skulls set aflame by idle hands.

Hate we knew not, until our tree had fallen. We are alone, bereft of even the gentlest of litanies. A sigh lingers for a moment, then disappears. A wrinkled black hand trembles, then stops. An angel weeps in the distance.

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