Black ink and sunbeams poetry

Your heart,

conflicted,

finds itself again besides the spinning gear,

our fate drawn out behind a dung-beetle,

unconcerned by those things

which pull you forward that

she left to yesterday,

they multiply,

mired in misery,

curses, force fed,

a hypocrite’s repose

masked in righteousness  

how long then, until, mature,

they break free,

threshed out, ever keening,

a whirlwind before Jerusalem,

our prayer answered upon the

butcher’s cross

trailing, rearward,

the silent stones break

their silence