Black Dirt Doesn’t Ask Questions

Bury me east of the moon.

Let my bones rest beneath

the cottonwood where

dreams dance with the devil.

In the death rattle of stained glass

black robes already gather

in the choir to sing of my damnation.

I suffer their notes,

but freedom doesn’t need

to glory paste confession.

 Black dirt doesn’t ask questions. 

©Susie Clevenger 2018

Friday 55

Even Angels

Louis-Léopold Boilly - A Lady Seated at Her Desk

He sat me among naughty things

and told me to think of innocence.

Of all the sins brushed across my skin,

denial sent the deepest blush.

With my arm pressed against my thigh

I tried to not wonder how his hands would feel

beneath my dress and demon’s silenced.

Even angels hate pedestals.

©Susie Clevenger 2018

Friday 55

Wicked

Darkness paces behind my eyelids

where monsters dance, and

tomorrow is hungry.

Sunlight is my warden…It guards

shadows, peers through curtains,

chases thoughts into inspection.

But it’s when the moon dresses

the wolf howl anger damns

the sweet sonnet I masquerade in.

Evil craves a host and I am its welcome.

Wicked opens wounds.

©Susie Clevenger 2018

Friday 55

What Lies Are For

You know what lies are for.

They dig graves in eyes and tongues

to bury trust in plain view.

They are spoon fed until

their poison tastes like sugar coat.

A rat boiled in honey tastes sweet.

Weary them…Weary them…

until the body can’t protest,

and voices drown in the noise.

Freedom no longer has a Wikipedia page

or a definition in Webster…

You don’t know what you have until it’s gone.

You know what lies are for.

They dig graves in eyes and tongues

so weary can’t transform outrage into resist.

©Susie Clevenger 2018

Real Toads ~ The Tuesday Platform