Aware of altars, there is much I would compel
into the binding. Into ropes,
into knots, entanglements of selfish scopes
revelling in lusts; may they dispel.
Weak, I admit, sin does not submit well.
Oh my zealous knife, invitation slopes
away from coercion, banishing hopes
of forcing pain to meakly wave farewell.
In splinters, in spite of the face of the word,
In sacrifice, dryest breath misheard.
Cords lie untied, imperfection finds
itself paved into souls on the way;
enlivened by paradox that binds
both Spirit and life to redeem the enslaved.
1 comment:
Nice sonnet. I had to read it twice to get a decent feel. As usual, very good.
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