Athame
In this spin
the drum beat falters
as we begin
to decorate alters.
I don't know
when isolation
began to grow
to numb all sensation
in nerve nets
once teeming with souls
until regrets
drown nurturing goals
with the rush
of booming campaigns
as cheeks bloom flush
until loaded in trains
to vanish
like water on slopes,
flow they banish
to liquefy all hopes.
We deserve
graces in our fight
as we preserve
liberty through this plight.
Will you rise
to defend your life
when they disguise
that sacramental knife?
poem by John Weber
Added by Poetry Lover
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