by Mike Acker
If only I believed in what the prophets claim,
if only I believed in the first garden,
or even that hellish flame.
If only I could be a hundred percent sure
of what they say is better left obscure.
If I were able to believe, once departed
that I could ever see you again.
I would willingly carry you
to the edge of your favoured cliffs,
or patiently gather and ground for you
bitter, unprescribed pills,
or even, shamelessly, sharpen
your blade of choice.
I would go so far as to
prepare, with love and care,
the neatest noose for your tender
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