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This Wounded Cloak
Allow me my honesty for a moment
so I may cut you to fine ribbons.
And from these tattered pieces of you
I’ll create a thin cloak.
Hardly enough to withstand a proper sneeze
or a pauper’s fart.
I’ll call it your destiny.
This haggard cloak by my hands.
I’ll mock you for your choice in clothing
and you will shy the words of men.
A wounded cloak you will wear.
It will embrace your china bones.
A boy’s bones fragile with potential and glee.
It will embrace you
and gnaw a hole through your pride
from which,
if angels of sour mercy willing,
a whisper of light may emerge.
Light speckled with shadow and space
protecting your ragged corpse,
abused by my charred knowledge.
May this humble light lead you from me.
Bold and brave warm you so that you can
shed your wounded cloak and move
towards a distant fate
rounded by your insolent longing
for the tears that only the forgiving may shed.
Further Reading
So Sorry
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