Climb the highest mountain, punch the face of god


His was a soul served
In a brown paper bag.

He walks among mortals,
His tongue wagging at both ends.

Like some hero.
But I have not forgotten.

Perhaps I was his charity,
His Saturday Night special.

My eyes darken to two black olives,
A butcher knife poised in my hand.

I would cut him the way he slit
My throat, letting my unsaid words spill out.

But seeing him now, red wine
Dribbling down his chin, I felt pity.

A bell rings, I turn to hide but
He's seen me already.

Heartburn boiling my insides, tears
Slide down my face; I leave.

Keep my integrity in a glass jar.
But I know him not anymore.


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