Words

Words
 
Words
they drill themselves
into the flesh of my
temple.

Embedded in clay,
They fumble their way,
To where I pray.

The words, they prey on me
Like condors on a lamb.
Oh God, why can't I flee,
Enshackled as I am…
 
They crush me with their might.
They slap me in the face,
I don't put up a fight.
I listen, and embrace.
 
The pain redeems my body,
My mind is sober still.
A drunken-like I stagger
and fall into a kneel.
 
But death is not my slayer,
When duly, I submit.
What good is to repair
My own self-defeat.