Last Rites

by Daniel   Jan 29, 2020


Angel of the east,
whose storm billows in my chest
I am nothing to its majesty,
so I trudge furrows between
your breasts -

I keel upon the precipice,
to your mercy, I’m outstretched
am I unworthy of this baptism;
my hands clasped at your
behest -

Its fury is my sanctuary,
I traverse your body without rest,
release me, darling avalanche,
leave me broken and unblessed.

3


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Latest Comments

  • 4 months ago

    by Everlasting

    <3

  • 4 months ago

    by Rania Moallem

    Yow, you crafting these days? I read it over and over again, it's a masterpiece. I loved this refreshing poem. You are original most of the times and this had a twist that I've missed. There is this, solely love-imitation in your words that reflects some sacred form of attachment to the poet's "east Angel." You can sense the heat around each line. This poem is a mini storm on its own. Thanks for sharing.

    • 4 months ago

      by Daniel

      Thank you Rania :)

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