In fields that spring the newborns played,
By summer all the doelings caged
Now only sheep remain at graze
To see the coming winter.
From the old I take the young
And leave the damned to mourn the loss
In faith that ritual sacrifice
Will ease this doubt I’m given to.
Sheltered under broken rock
Yet high above the thing to come
I edge the razor with a strap
And dream of two door-ed Cadillac’s.
From here the harshness shines in waves
To break on meat that smells of salt
And colors bruised to bloody rust,
(A grit that slowly wears in time.)
Winged and weightless the flies hover,
Sure that in the intensity of sheen
A sweetness is upon them,
Just as I mistake the agony of effort
For a prayer of submission.
Razor strapped and polished slab
I cleanse to myth my ruthlessness.
Mike Brady 2010 (revised 3/12)