24/01/2016: Tritina of Sacrament

(Quick one for you today, put behind a cut because I’m not too proud of it. Written on a whim, mostly because I liked the word ‘sacrament’. Almost turned into a love poem (again) but took it in a different direction. After seeing how this one went, think I might stick with love poetry. Seems to be doing something for me, while writing about the act of writing seems to be going nowhere for me. Then again, the only way to improve is to keep writing…)

The scratch of pen on paper and the smell of old books is my sacrament:

The ink stains on my fingers are my holy grail, my offerings of blood

To the church of the past, the greats, the giants, I offer only and sadly


What lives inside me and around me. My only offerings are the poetry

Of observation, of the heart and the world, of emotion and the elements,

And my prayers are my workings, my sweat and tears and blood


As I try to perfect it. Slice a vein and watch as not dark blood

But ink runs out in rivulets, staining dark against my vividly

Pale skin. Listen to my pulse: you will hear fragments


Of the verse, of my sacrament of blood, of poetry.


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