The Risen Suicide

[serge gurkski]

The falseness of her Christian grave will haunt
me in Your holy court. My soul was blind.
A daughter does this to a man, and I
was weak, preacher or not, a lost parent <<< i stumble rhythmically here
in fields of sadness he could not attack, << because he could not grasp the martyred mind <<< < inside his daughter's head. The truth is nought;
the grave is all the truth she knew and loved. <<< wow that is heavy but very good.

I found her in the barn and wasn't shocked.
With tender hand I plucked a knife from one
tight fist, then washed her neck with warm water. <<< again . I like whsat you write but watch, please do, out for the rhythm.
I knew her destiny was Hell. I tried <<< you don't need to capitalise hell.
to smuggle her elsewhere. A savage cross <<< yes ;-)
of kindling, thrust in earth with Arthur's zeal,
and her beneath, reserved for Judgement Day
despite that fucking sin (see what I am?
A foul-mouthed cur of wholly sodden mind). <<< very good but I don#t like the parentheses.
I'm glad her mother's dead. [b]You spared her this
torment, at least. I've earned her pain and more. <<< thumbs up
[/b], her mattress mud? I like this but don't get the context.
That cross, that evil cross, so barbarous
and crude, erected on a suicide! )(maybe Kitsch)

The roods of old were Heaven's doorknobs compared
to those sticks nailed by my tired hands.
I'd dressed her sweetly in her white night clothes.
Why she'd done this was no secret to me
or You. The joy was absent from her eyes,
and even loving grace wasn't enough;
my flock had tried, but man can't force a heart.
I beg You for forgiveness when studying
my case. I did not mean to mock Your ways.
That grave I made was vain and foolish hope.

She rose from it like lava spurting through
brimstone, her eyes static and mouth with worms
bedewed. I screamed then wept in martyred tones.
I could not save the soul she killed herself.

Now each night she pelts my windows with mud,
walking blind across the woods, not ghost or corpse
but dumb machine, symbol of my crimes,
reminder of hypocrisy. Her eyes
are yoke-less eggs, her skin a rotting steak.
She never speaks, but serves the wrath of You.

More later. must roll on now but you write superbly now.
whatever happened it did you good.

cheers
serge