‘I drag you from their consecrated ground…
and place you on my altar, limbs unbound.
May stagnance leave your bloodstream, absence rend.
Your time amidst the shadows nears its end.
Recall to mind the inquisition games,
the hungry mobs, the pitchforks and the flames,
their vehemence, your strangulated cries.
Repeat my incantations…
‘Oh meagre man, so eager to impress,
too late for crucifixes. Now, confess –
that quiver of excitement in your blood
espoused revenge, but dwelt upon the mud.
You bristled at their primitive concern,
beheld a clearer vision whilst I burned,
but pebbles tossed in streams have injured fish.
Not every superstition goes amiss.’
Lawrence Moore has been writing poems – some silly, some serious – since childhood. He lives in Portsmouth, England with his husband Matt and nine mostly well behaved cats. He has poetry published at, among others, Dreich, Pink Plastic House, Fevers of the Mind, The Madrigal and The Daily Drunk Mag. @LawrenceMooreUK