Plucking the nettles from my dreaming veins, a garland for a king never crowned. Drifting embers of forsaken prayers, Mantle forged of smoke and sorrow. No serpent needs to whisper.
This poem once again reminded me of Dózsa, ‘the king of the peasants’ in the early 1500's Hungary.
Beautiful images, while pain and sorrow is endured with composure.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gy%C3%B6rgy_D%C3%B3zsa
“Singing, the songs come unraveled.” And it’s only in the space between the notes we find ourselves once again.
That candle consumed by its own light had real teeth...
Read this twice.
And then again.
‘I am the hymn that remembers the bleeding’
Loved this one, Joe.
This is beautifully intense. The imagery feels almost mythic.
This poem once again reminded me of Dózsa, ‘the king of the peasants’ in the early 1500's Hungary.
Beautiful images, while pain and sorrow is endured with composure.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gy%C3%B6rgy_D%C3%B3zsa
“Singing, the songs come unraveled.” And it’s only in the space between the notes we find ourselves once again.
That candle consumed by its own light had real teeth...
Read this twice.
And then again.
‘I am the hymn that remembers the bleeding’
Loved this one, Joe.
This is beautifully intense. The imagery feels almost mythic.