November is the Holy Souls in Purgatory in the Roman Catholic Church Month.
Iago:
O, beware, my lord, of jealousy;
It is the green-ey'd monster, which doth mock
The meat it feeds on. That cuckold lives in bliss,
Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger:
But O, what damnèd minutes tells he o'er
Who dotes, yet doubts, suspects, yet strongly loves!
Othello:
O misery!
~
The darkness stays too long,
the suffering runs through,
the demise of grace
and the soul are shackled there.
We have to retake the night,
our grievance is emergent,
our feet, idle, our eyes,
closed too tightly to rattle speech.
The cycle courses from end to end
as we turn our faces eastward
and our armies march across the living,
over the mountains and the streams.
We carry our sins like a crystal chalice
brimming hate,
we’ve been enslaved by our own hand,
tenders of work, awareness and dreams.
The dawn stretches out,
dusk shrouds our grief,
our fences rise in barbed wire.
The days we have breathed with our quiet lungs
have solidified our judgment and closed reception
like a Do Not Enter sign.
We can dance with each other; craft our living,
our love to enter upon the green breath
of our masquerade, our play, if you will,
a feigned life in the coliseum.
Beneath the crimson sky of her shoreline,
we’ve been placed on the stage with ready mouths
twisting our lips into the shape of a sickle,
a half-moon blade for us to turn.
© 2010 by mark prime
:>)
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