They’ve all called you babe

They’ve all
called you babe

That is all you know
for sure

Patches of skin
run like garden paths
to tomb stones
of forgotten Shamans

Blessed
several times
And each time
Flesh decayed
And a new religion was formed

If I look up
from orris root graves
I can almost sense
the inside velvet
the bronze, the stone
red wine stained windows

I can see through
accidental mis-slips of clothes
where blackness has taken root
Often it starts in the extremities
At their fingers
On their foreheads

They begin to cover up more
and I know the time is coming

This church was built for me
By them they think
Even though I might have conjured it
alone

I bury them still alive
Their eyes closing as dirt covers their skin
As though going to sleep
They whisper I love you

But the truth is
they love the earth more
and to be free of me
is to be enwrapped
in the loudest silence
Somewhere
Where all hunted things go

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