Futility

Gnawing maggots crunch and bite through
sinew and socket; their advance gained by
terminal termites whose mandibles made
short work of a mahogany coffin.
Tearing amid stagnant flesh and rot, their survival is
assured through our consumption;
we die so that they may live.

Is this the sacrifice preached from
countless pulpits? Is it a
maggot messiah who will rise on
the third day?
This is my flesh, my blood;
eat, drink and be filled.

Or are we losing our resolve at the
futility of trying to make sense of it all before
we, too, turn into
fuel for the feeding end?

by Erik Shinker

Rosary

Counting down the beads of
a worn, wooden rosary; the
tangible reminder of the
faith of Our Father,
who art in Heaven.

Reciting each Hail Mary was
a verbal flagellation, the torn
flesh of my grief dropped in
dripping, bloody strips;
soaked by my own tears.

I am dragged down by
the reality of your
absence, your
loss, your
Death.

by Erik Shinker

Virgin is Such a Dirty Word

I once had a friend who was a firm believer in astrology, so she was proud to inform me that I am a Virgo since I was born on the 22nd of September (which is also the fictional birthday of Frodo and Bilbo Baggins, so shout out to them); the symbol for Virgo is the maiden, or virgin, and I don’t think that she realized how accurate that is. Yes, I am a 26-year-old virgin (now the Hobbit reference makes sense, right?); I’m sure questions are running through your mind about how this could come about, and I hope to give some insight into the choices I have made throughout my life, some of which may surprise you. Don’t worry, the featured image is simply an allusion to the most famous of virgins; there won’t be any preaching in this post.
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