Pride

Rising like smoke to choke

The saint who breathes it deep

Enough to death, and on whose breath 

Can the taint of guilt be guised

As wormwood tongue that sweetly lies.

Crinkling curt words of discourse,
The finger flips and folds the furrowed page.
The unrelenting text blurs like hungry
Fog enveloping the unassuaged mind.

Dust,
oh, the haze that leaves her figure fettered,
graying sturdy tables, lamps, and wooden floors,
stirred up only to be caught by cobwebs
tying closed the windows and the doors. 

His mighty wrath she cannot fear,
For she’s been bought from death with blood.
And so she cries, “My Lord, appear!
With sweetest love like heavy flood.”