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by Mary Lambert
The scourge has gone.

Wings scrape wings as
misshapen flight blurs
the sun.

And this desiccated field
lays slain, eaten, skinned
in the shadow of the beast.

What comes of this?
What mortal entity can
withstand this purge?

Chalk white stubble
turns to dust and floats
in the still air.

I walk amongst ruins of
what was.

My God, My God, why hath
thou forsaken me?

I hang on thy structure,
my wounds burning in
the heat of this
arid hell.

Come to me, lift me
from this tortured post
toward your diamond
Eye of integer.

My God.

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Copyright © 1997 by Mary Lambert. All rights reserved.