Poem -

Chapter forty-eight

Chapter forty-eight

In which a drunk Joseph knocks on his mothers door coming to drunk-terms with the fact no matter how perverse, love is love.

He was drunk on a scheme
of her invitation.
It's the pain of a king
without variation.

When resolve did return
he felt sad for his blood.
His mother had to learn
that his fate was a flood.

Tomorrow will descend
even graves must be dug.
This marriage will not end
in the joy of a hug.

Using her is not rape
it's what will or what wont.
Cutting through birthday cake
will she say “no you don't.”

Knocking on a locked door
from the grave death has sprung.
with the screams "your a whore!"
climbing down one more rung.

The descent is not far
to the depth of her soul.
The bright and morning star
spread without like a bowl.

She's naked on the floor
ignoring the white noise.
Of her son and his chore
knowing boys will be boys.

She is used like a sheep
the slaughter and the blame.
For the sin he would keep
to make love dirty names.

He would judge no one else
taking her from the prince.
Not excepting any help
or a faint recompense.

No she thinks it will wait
the ending wont come yet.
I'm the queen of check mate
taking what I can get.

He won't learn this one truth
in his love is our hope.
On the street running loose
we are filth using soap.

We're germ free in our sin
seeing as it's too late.
In this game god will win
spreading blood at the gate.

The kingdom glorified,
my patience is the truth.
Where is it I can hide
from the boys crooked youth.

In his mind I'm nothing
but a stone in his path.
I'm so glad he forgot
the damage makes me laugh.

Nothing more then pleasure
from the saints with patience.
Taking joy by measure
with a sad complaisance.

Sweet Kristin will not sleep
all she can do is bleed.
As this love is oblique
from it's birth she will breed.

The kingdom of our god
is within her proud game.
From his hand is the clod
to wipe off all the shame.

It is that time of month
still dripping on the floor.
As this day is among-st
the center of the core.

Reaching down to the blood
her finger is now red.
The idea is a bud
what follows is not dead.

The smell of vinegar,
something sour to the grave.
The disgust caught in fur
on this road for the brave.

Blood water and spirit
so we move without cause.
To hate the satiric
this judgment our applause.

The ending period
the vomit but an itch.
So wrong and myriad
the sickness of the bitch.

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