Prompt #77 and Tale Weavers #30 “Chalice”


There is no incision

That does not compromise its host.

I thought I might bleed today,

Drag my ancestors

From their common red graves,

A séance where no one speaks

Their secrets are safe in me

Perhaps repeated but never staged.


I am the jar, the chalice,

The latched box

Inside of me even darkness laments.

Those who live in the gutter

Brew in the piss of their benefactors

Those who live in the gutter

Never forget that foremost

In their composition are stars.


The clouds are my anchors

I flicker as a man

Approaching death

In another war

I might have been a gun

A solider, a limping child

I might even have been a stone

Mute, encrypted,

Worshiped in retrospect.


I am not limited to what I perceive

Some days I curse and others sow

There is naught to do but ascend

But I’ve done my fair share of tunneling

Hope is always stronger

When there is no where else to go.


You may find me ignoble, wanting

You may scoff at my suffering

My education, the tenor of my constructs.

I am proof of your excess

Proof that a smile heals

What antiseptic can only bleach

Proof that love is endemic

And that when there is nothing

Left to give, there is still more

Than enough to share.