Falling Short

Darkness is that line that never, never ends, and we are mortal; we overstep the mark or we do not reach the Good in time to save our precious souls. In other words: we fall short.

For all have fallen short,

Fallen short

Of the mark,

The dotted line not to cross

Has been tested,

And strained along the very depth

Of agony, of sin’s triumph,

Where prying eyes are straying-

Where temperament is

Boiled and broken,

Stirred simmering

For all to take a sip:

Take a sin, they call,

A number without a digit,

A bursting taste

Of penitence without remorse,

A sign that leads to no-place;

Elicit instruction into the length,

Silence alone a comfort

For the mortal on the bridge,

In implicit explication

Pondering that very line,

And all the want

To unravel it,

To find the end that never matters,

Hidden in fragments

Of the truth

Scattered in mind,

A row of some point,

Never met; a falling

Short of the right

To forget.


Dead men commit murders

When their potential

Forms the blood upon lips

Of the ever-lost;

But that can never be actuality,

Darkness an enclosure

Of the Beast who lingers,

Pushing forward flowers

For the splatter- always

Dust-marked sin for taking;

Resurrection patterned in

Shame alone,

Cross-marked, burned,

With the ashes’ stench



Left much to clutch at:

Disquiet of the flesh

Smouldering and boiling,

With acid-limbs in perpetual

Rotation, from Good

To bitter black, and Good

To the ever-cursèd wrong.

For all have fallen,

Fallen short of the Glory,

And on my hands, the blood

Is marked: a line

In filthy absence

Of the triumph;

There, where I have fallen short,

In lust and brevity,

Carnate design is withheld,

Beauty and fortitude denied.

The End

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