Bloody Hammer

Shoved on oak and secured with a spike,

attached with a  purpose to build up a house.

The round of its head crowned with thorns,

halo of abuse, splintered story of beatings and falls.

Strike after strike after strike after strike

reaching resonance of ricocheted reverberations 

that reached my ears like heartbreak with a purpose.

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Constructing, chapels, children, chairs, chimneys

whose smoke sings sweet, serpentine in minds and trees,

wrongly righting wrongs 

never wrong in the first place. 

Boarding up windows of introspection and inquiry.

Erecting walls between them and themselves,

hanging up idols, perpetual panopticonic policing.

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Fastening the facades of faith fortresses, 

within which to hide from reflection and self.

Pounding, pounding, pounding pious penny nails 

into personality, resounding roars of repression within. 

Age remarkable, endurance imposing,

handle grain worn smooth with frequent use. 

Its head, metal miraculous, a mallet of merciful malice.

Christened by crimson, dried up from the dead

whose selves met its head in a meeting of difference.

Tell me, please, and try not to stammer,

What, make you, of the blood on your hammer?

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