The Pontificators

irony means I am free
to take up arms and murder me.
I grasp the blade to wield the sword,
my bleeding fingers all ignored.

step down hard so I will feel
the grinding motion of your heel;
destroy the serpent here within,
that wears my face, and hair, and skin.

bitten, I will fix my stare
on snake of brass impaled there
up on a pole where I can find
its brazen coils all intertwined.

Blood on the door and either side
makes just the place where I can hide.

This entry was posted on Monday, March 30th, 2009 at 10:34 am and is filed under Alvin, Faith, Poetry, Sonnets. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.