Elegy IV
Title: Elegy IV
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: Wine for brigits_flame
It cracks over his drying lips, last barrier spilt across white country lines, canyon in the dying sun: freedom, and he's soaked in it. He holds the dirt of America, my newfound land, in his palm, and when the wind scatters it, what stays in the lines smears into mud. It becomes part of the clay he can't wash without lifting a layer of himself; he clenches his fist and doesn't.
He walks until he sees the endings of mountains, the edges of deserts, the whites between black bones of upturned skeletons. He walks until his feet are scorched and the skin on his back flakes. He wanders until he has lost time and direction.
For moments, he stares south of the sun, and touches the light and touches the horizon, and he is free because he is not Jesus and cannot turn water into wine.
He drinks from wells where lizards sleep and stays amongst the shadows where serpents cool, and he is free. He touches sunlight like shards of salvation beneath his skin. He watches the blood pool and the vultures circle and his lips dry into cracks.
He lies in the sand. He breathes the air. He is the dust.
When the cup is offered to him, he takes it.
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: Wine for brigits_flame
It cracks over his drying lips, last barrier spilt across white country lines, canyon in the dying sun: freedom, and he's soaked in it. He holds the dirt of America, my newfound land, in his palm, and when the wind scatters it, what stays in the lines smears into mud. It becomes part of the clay he can't wash without lifting a layer of himself; he clenches his fist and doesn't.
He walks until he sees the endings of mountains, the edges of deserts, the whites between black bones of upturned skeletons. He walks until his feet are scorched and the skin on his back flakes. He wanders until he has lost time and direction.
For moments, he stares south of the sun, and touches the light and touches the horizon, and he is free because he is not Jesus and cannot turn water into wine.
He drinks from wells where lizards sleep and stays amongst the shadows where serpents cool, and he is free. He touches sunlight like shards of salvation beneath his skin. He watches the blood pool and the vultures circle and his lips dry into cracks.
He lies in the sand. He breathes the air. He is the dust.
When the cup is offered to him, he takes it.