Till the Gardens of Machpelah
Her vacant womb, barren, screams for flesh. A low black fence, bright gilded rail,
squares a yard and bounds the pale. It aches to swell with blood and water but is answered with soured Muscat wine. Across that, a green field dotted with stone shaded by oaks fed well on bone. Ahead the empty endless future taunts her, dancing with fruitless pleasure. There’s a stone church, with plain front doors, the right wide open for you and yours.Wincing, livid and wild-eyed, she roils like a cornered predator.Within, glass views of biblical fellows, coloring Sunday service in blues and yellows. Hands and claws rake furrows in her own face to quench the hunger, to slake her gutâ€™s first need.Past hard oak pews in columns paired, afflux with red carpet to an altar shared. Black birds on each transom arm lend themselves to her efforts.Under heartwood beams, under a lowercase â€œtâ€, in a lit pool of water caustic like a sea,She suffers starving in an indifferent ideal, tied and bound by unwanted care.Old Fire & Brimstone speaks the Name then drenches the alb to quash the flame. Her beauty fades like thick white clouds before a descending rain. Here is the church under stark timbers enjoining rebirth for all the members.
Each life never lived rumbles out of her for denial, â€œNo flesh! No blood! No purpose!â€
`Proverbs 8:4 Perfect, stagnant and unchanging, the saccharine garden birds sing to her. The lilt of their song tears through her as lashes on her bare skin. The seeds within her will never know the sweet sound. This knowledge drives her away, to gnash her teeth and rip at her hair to feel pain for them. Her punisher made her a comfort for creation and knows her pain. The devourer of birds, fiery and more beautiful then her, He walks the garden and tells her what not to eat.
` Thomas 9 & 10